


In Focus

by luninosity



Series: Steadfast [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Actors, Anal Sex, Coming Out, Consensual Kink, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Meetings, First Time, Friendship, Happy Ending, M/M, Mild Painplay, Morning After, Morning Sex, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Paparazzi, Phone Sex, Rimming, meeting the friends, supportive parents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-25 01:01:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 76,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22107370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: Out from behind the camera, the obnoxious photographer had wavy short dark hair, a hint of dark stubble, skin somewhere between light brown and deep tan, and absolutely sinful long-lashed brown-gold eyes.Leo blinked. No, that’d been a real thought. One his brain’d just had. About those eyes.
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Series: Steadfast [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1424728
Comments: 330
Kudos: 130





	1. Vegas (Prologue)

**Author's Note:**

> Leo needed a happy ending of his own. And I knew partway through Character Bleed what that was...
> 
> This one *probably* won't be quite as long as Character Bleed, or so I say now. (Heh.) Updates...not on a weekly schedule yet, because I wasn't writing linearly, so I have the next chapter done but not the one after that. So...less scheduled than Character Bleed was, at least for now. But I'll try not to make posts too far apart!
> 
> I wanted to get the Prologue, at least, up to start off the New Year! And that rating will *definitely* change. :D

Las Vegas glittered. Neon fizzed. Beacons beamed. Thumping music and casino fountains and cacophonous good-time noise burst across the night. A party in the tourist heart of the desert. A dance between the glitz and the gutters.

Leo Whyte watched a hurtling cab fly down the street, and the bob of someone’s marvelous purple-feathered headdress as they strutted the sidewalk, and the sudden quick laughter of a couple spontaneously kissing under a streetlight; he ended up smiling. People. He’d always liked them.

He looked back at _his_ people, outside the trendy upscale experimental cocktail bar. They were waiting for the limo, which had had to dodge some traffic; Colby and Jillian had built extra time into the schedule, though, so that was fine. They’d expected some difficulty maneuvering a small cluster of mildly tipsy celebrities around, although so far that hadn’t been too bad. A few pictures snapped, a few photographers stalking them outside restaurants and hotels, a few autographs when someone recognized adorable box-office favorite Colby Kent or the mountain-range shoulders belonging to Jason Mirelli. But mostly Las Vegas shrugged and took them in, just another piece of sparkle in the perpetual show.

Andy, whose actual stag night—no, bachelor party; they were in America, Leo mentally corrected—it was, was excitedly talking to Jillian and Colby about the experimental cocktail menu they’d all literally just consumed, while also texting his fiancé Adrian just to say hi. Jill was laughing, magenta-tipped hair up in its usual ponytail, hand reaching out to steady Andy’s arm. Andy’s freckles glowed: with drinks, with the night, with excitement about getting married.

On Andy’s other side, Jason Mirelli occupied most of the universe just by existing. Built to bench-press small buildings, Jason’s action-hero arms had gone around his other half, who was still too thin and currently pink-cheeked and animatedly explaining something about medieval mead and herbal infusions to the group.

Colby Kent, even when tipsily leaning on his shield-wall partner, remained the heart of everybody’s orbit: the person who’d plan a weekend with a loving general’s insight into Andy’s interests, the movie star who knew the names of not just the personal assistants on set but also their little sisters, the kind of prince they’d all follow not because he could wave a sword around the best but because he’d jump in front of a blow for any of them.

They all knew he would, and an unspoken understanding had run from person to person that very first day they’d all been on set together. Colby, with those bruises lacing his past, would never get hurt again. Not if they could help it.

That film’d been _Steadfast_. It’d been glorious, overflowing with Regency-era gay romance and ballroom waltzes and decadent sex scenes in libraries and cannon-thunder from Napoleonic War sea-battles. That film’d given them each other to know. And Colby and Jason most of all, of course, being in love.

Leo put hands in tailored trouser-pockets, and smiled a bit more. _His_ people. His friends. More or less, that was, of course.

He hadn’t expected to be invited, tonight. He thought of Colby and Jason and Andy and Jill as friends, but he hadn’t thought they reciprocated. Leo Whyte, notorious on-set prankster, made of jokes, was fun to have around and a lighthearted decently-talented breath of air on a production. Cheerful and frivolous. Likely to cover a trailer door with duct tape or sneakily swap real rum in for colored water during a take. Weightless and unserious.

Everyone’s friend. No-one’s closest friend.

He knew his role. He’d accepted that. He could make Colby giggle even if Jason was running late, and he could proclaim outrageous truths without batting an eye, and he could be counted on to liven up a party with astonishing suggestions, like the time he’d turned a boring press event in New York into an on-the-spot kitten adoption spectacle with a couple of well-chosen phone calls.

Leo Whyte could conjure up kittens or penis-shaped confetti or charity-supporting worldwide scavenger hunts on the spot. He was not the person anyone would call for emotional confidences, secret-sharing, soul-searching depths.

He did know that. He didn’t even mind, not really. He knew what he was good at. What he was good _for_.

Vegas lights kissed his face, and slid onward, shifting and changing in the night.

For Colby and Jason, he’d wanted to help. He’d wanted Colby to be happy.

He’d tried buying Colby all of Jason’s action-hero filmography and unsubtly leaving them alone together and encouraging Jason to walk Colby back to a hotel room. He’d gleefully let them announce their newfound coupledom on his social media live feeds, since Colby occasionally lived in the nineteenth century and refused to join any of said social media possibilities.

He’d been so genuinely thrilled for them. He truly was.

“Leo,” Colby said, looking over. “You’re being rather quiet.”

“Me? I’m wondering whether anyone’s ever tried to swim in that fountain, and whether someone would care if I did. You could put on a whole water ballet under those lights. I could learn a water ballet routine. Would you join me?”

“I suspect the casino owners would frown on that.” Colby tipped that head consideringly; blue eyes sparkled. “Though perhaps they’d allow us to try if I asked.” This was, Leo judged, likely true. Colby Kent had a lot of influence, personal and parental, for various reasons related to that acting stardom and that family he didn’t speak to much. “And I do like swimming…though not at the moment, I think; I’m not sober enough to practice retired-lifeguard rescue techniques on anyone.”

Jason—also not entirely sober, and in giant protective mother-hen mode, given how infrequently Colby dared crowds and strangers—bent to cup Colby’s face, to get those wide eyes glancing up and focusing on Jason himself. “Knew you should’ve eaten more before that last gin and pistachio and crystallized honey mead thing…”

“Oh, but that was excellent! I’m so glad we tried it. I know Andy’s favorite was the one with the mint foam and elderflower drops—”

Andy gave a mildly lopsided thumbs-up. “Sent Adrian a picture. He says hi to you all!”

“Tell him and his half of the party hello on our behalf,” Colby said. “Leo, which was your favorite? Mine might’ve been that early cocktail with the cheddar cube and the dark chocolate liqueur.”

“That’s because you’re a very strange person,” Leo pointed out. He knew exactly what Colby was doing, namely making him feel included. It was and wasn’t working. “That one was the definition of bizarre. I liked the one served in the ice cups. With the egg white and vodka and little gold bits. Where’re we going next?”

He did adore Colby. He adored them all. Not in question.

He only…

…wasn’t quite certain where he fit. _If_ he fit. Fitting into the group implied a place, a matching space, belonging.

Jill and Colby had known each other almost as long as she’d known Andy; Jillian Poe and Andy Connors had been director and assistant director on the coming-of-age romantic comedy that’d been Colby’s first major film role. Jason, of course, came attached to Colby these days, but even if not they’d’ve all liked him: Jason’s easygoing friendliness and passion for good storytelling had won over everybody on set instantly. The glorious physique and obvious devotion to Colby’s happiness didn’t hurt, either.

A few more people hadn’t made it tonight but would join them tomorrow. Andy’s older brother, who taught economics at a laid-back Southern California university. A couple of film-school friends. All people who knew Andy well and were thrilled about his upcoming nuptials. Everybody liked Adrian, too; Andy’s parents instantly adored anyone who loved their sons and hadn’t blinked for a second when the Adrienne they’d first met as Andy’s new girlfriend had reintroduced himself as Adrian, Andy’s boyfriend. Affection unquestioned, Andy’d said. He loved his family; that’d been evident with every syllable. His family, and his friends. The people in his life, close-knit and loyal.

Leo Whyte was good at jokes and diversions. Shallowness. A puddle, not a vast ocean full of deep thoughts. He wasn’t certain he’d ever had any.

“It involves drag queens, let’s say. But food first.” Colby leaned against Jason a bit more, answering the question about their next stop. “Mmm. You feel so nice. Big and comforting. Cinnamon buns. Massive ones. And delicious…”

“Okay,” Jason said, “you’re not as sober as you think you are, come here, I’ve got you, want me to find you coffee?” and cradled Colby in the shelter of muscles. “I can get you coffee. Jill, don’t we have a limo?”

“It’s coming,” Jill said. “Colby, here, have a pretzel.”

“You brought pretzels?” Colby took it and regarded it with interest. “Ooh, sourdough. Where were you keeping those?”

“That’s what this giant bag is for. I’ve been feeding Andy.”

“Cheers,” Andy said, grinning. More drunk than Colby, though not much, Leo estimated. Fair enough: it was his party.

Really none of them were much beyond a little warm and fuzzy; the goal’d been taste-tests and fun. They’d already wandered around rare-erotica book exhibits, a fantasia of an ice-cream parlor, and a quirky antiques shop specializing in pocket-watches; tomorrow there’d be a classic Hollywood-themed escape room. Colby and Jillian, as co-best-persons, knew Andy well. Colby Kent, with that upper-class background and that leading-man income, had a lot of money to spend on friends.

Friends, Leo thought again. He didn’t quite sigh.

He took out his mobile phone and took a picture of the night, instead: slightly blurry shimmers of light, splashes of riotous color. He’d post it later.

He said to Colby, who might need distractions to focus on that _didn’t_ involve nuzzling Jason’s chest, “I tried mead once. Filming _The Green Knight_. The director wanted to be very authentic. Lots of ale, mead, medieval food, or what would look medieval on camera. He tried to get us to learn medieval drinking songs, and then we ended up cutting that bit anyway. Do you know any? And how can I bribe you to sing one?”

“Oh!” Colby brightened right up. “I actually do know some, in fact. Er…would you want to know some lyrics?”

“Totally,” Jill said. “We’re doing that musical, remember, we’ve all said we are! Also I do love it when we can get you to sing. We love your voice.”

“Medieval drinking songs yes!” Andy pointed at Colby. “Teach us songs! You’re the _best_ nerd. Well, aside from _my_ nerd. But he’s not here and you are!”

Colby looked up at Jason. A bit of his tumbling hair fell into one eye.

Jason stroked it back. “Love you. Go ahead and show off.”

Colby did, a bit shyly. He really did have a gorgeous voice, elegant and mysteriously European-accented from living in all those countries and flawlessly on key; he hummed a tune, paused, explained lyrics, taught them very earnestly a few lines about bringing in the ale, more ale, no beef or bacon or mutton—“Good,” Leo muttered, which earned him a dirty look from Jason—or eggs or anything else.

Jill was laughing; she and Andy and Jason jumped in to sing along, and Leo did too, letting Colby teach them all centuries-old drinking songs under dazzling Vegas twinkle: leaning on each other, celebrating together, swept up in shared elation.

Andy even draped an arm around Leo, which might’ve been for support but felt nice. An off-key line about rejecting venison in favor of, yes, more ale, landed in Leo’s ear. He winced but didn’t pull away.

A camera-click sliced the night. They all spun that way.

Colby tripped over nothing and nearly fell; Jason caught him and literally scooped him up and petted him protectively. No strangers allowed. No intrusive bodies anywhere _near_.

The camera went off again. A flurry.

Andy yelled, “Hey, come on!” Jillian put a hand on his arm.

Leo took a step in front of Colby and Jason and said, “Let’s not, seriously, not cool, we’re just out trying to celebrate.”

The man ventured a few steps closer. The camera loomed. “Yeah, and you’re in public, and I’m just doing my job.”

“Your job is making my friends uncomfortable.”

“Come on, that’s Colby Kent! Nobody ever sees Colby out partying! That’s a story!”

Jason shifted weight. Wrapped arms more fiercely around Colby. Let out a rumbling noise like the threat of a tiger.

“True,” Leo deflected hastily, “but for your own health, I’d suggest you not say that again. Would you like pictures of me instead?”

Colby, being defended, patted Jason’s arm in appreciation, rested his head on Jason’s shoulder, and murmured, “Thank you, Leo…”

“No offense,” said the man, “but you’re not the biggest news here.” Out from behind the camera, he had wavy short dark hair, a hint of dark stubble, skin somewhere between light brown and deep tan, and absolutely sinful long-lashed brown-gold eyes.

Leo blinked. No, that’d been a real thought. One his brain’d just had. About those eyes.

“The limo’s here,” Jill said. “We’re going. Come on, guys.”

The camera went up again, presumably in hopes of catching Jason Mirelli tenderly helping an intoxicated Colby Kent into a limousine.

Leo sighed, said to his friends, “Go on, I’ll catch up,” and put himself right in front of the camera. He even began some bizarre arm-waving. Dancing around. Jumping up and down and generally being a photo-blocking nuisance.

Other diversionary tactics might’ve also worked. He hadn’t thought of any. He was mildly tipsy too.

Oh, well; he had no qualms at all about looking ridiculous. He’d never had those.

“You know,” the man said bemusedly, “I’ll take pictures of _you_. Better Leo Whyte than nothing.”

“Better me than you stalking my friends for whatever bottom-feeding tabloid rag you’ll sell them to,” Leo said, and used random flailing to angle himself between the lens and the actors and directors diving into transportation behind him.

The camera clicked a few times. Stopped. Luscious gold-flecked eyes regarded Leo with surprising intent. “You’re not what I expected.”

Leo put a hand on a hip. Struck a pose. “That’s because there’s only one of me. Unique, you might say.”

“I might.”

Jillian stuck her head back out of the limo. “Leo?”

“You should go,” Leo said, not looking round. “He might try to follow you.”

“But—”

“Or,” the photographer said, “you could let me buy you a drink.”

“Why on earth would I do that? Why would you _offer_?”

“Because.” With a grin; with, Leo realized suddenly and with some shock, a sweep of that gaze blatantly up and down, a study that echoed along Leo’s spine. “Because you _are_ unique. Because you don’t want me calling some contacts to see which tapas bar Colby Kent might like before the show. Because you want to help.”

“I—”

“Leo,” Jill called, “if you want Jason’ll come hit him for you!”

“I will,” Jason’s voice rumbled from limo-depths, “if you’ll take care of Colby for me.”

“I’m fine! I’m in favor of protecting Leo! And I’m always in favor of Jason’s muscles!”

“You should at least drink some water—here, take this bottle, and your hands’re cold, I want you wearing my jacket…”

“If I say yes to the drink,” Leo said, “you won’t follow them.” He wasn’t thinking about the last _because_. He didn’t know how. How’d a random obnoxious photographer seen exactly the piece of his heart that meant to try the hardest and also hurt the most?

“I promise.” The camera lowered. Neon cowboy boots flared and kicked in the dark above his head: a warning or a temptation, and Leo wasn’t sure which message it was.

He said, “Jill, go on, you’ll be late. I’ll catch up, I promise.”

“If you’re sure…”

“Darling,” Leo called back, “I’m sure about everything I say yes to!” and made her laugh.

The limo pulled away. Shadows and lights shifted in its wake.

Leo and a pretty-eyed photographer looked at each other. The man also had firm shoulders—not Jason-sized, but who was?—and a trim waist, in nice shape, Leo noticed.

He didn’t know why he was noticing. So many reasons not to. All of them good.

The camera got slung away. A hand stretched out Leo’s direction, an offering. “Hi. I’m Sam. Sam Hernandez-Blake, if you need to tell anyone who you’re with.”

Leo accepted the handshake because, well, why not. Another story, another ridiculous escapade. He could tell fellow actors later that he’d agreed to a drink with a paparazzo, and watch them all be horrified. “Leo Whyte. Which you already know. Where’re we going?”

Sam’s hand was warm, and firm, and strong, and it held Leo’s for just a fraction of a second too long: a flirtation, an invitation, unmistakable male interest.

Leo’s hand did not mind the interest. It liked being held. He discovered all at once that he’d been wanting that rather fiercely: someone touching him.

Sam grinned, letting go. Those treasure-chest eyes danced. “A pub.”

“That’s not helpful, thank you.”

“A pub I know about.”

Leo narrowed eyes at him. They were nearly the same height, though Leo was fractionally taller. Not much, though. “I should hope so. And _how_ do you know about it? Do you all get together and trade stories about stalking celebrities at the grocery store?”

“Nope. We save that for secret clandestine meet-ups behind the Starbucks. Can’t tell you which Starbucks, obviously, that’s against celebrity stalking regulations. Come on, it’s only like two blocks.”

Leo sighed, hoped the sigh registered as protest, and fell into step beside him. Vegas dazzle flung light and color in riotous splashes over Sam’s battered leather jacket and jeans; Leo, in casual-but-dressy trousers and jacket, wondered briefly about being overdressed, not matching Sam’s comfortable unfussy style. And then he wondered why he cared.

They fell into step, feet finding a shared rhythm on night pavement. Leo’s legs were slightly longer, but Sam had presence, with those nice broad shoulders and muscular thighs. The camera equipment took up space as well; it was portable, but unmissable. A reminder. A purpose.

Leo appreciated the reminder. It helped him not think about the sensation of Sam’s hand in his. He was used to people finding him attractive—part of the acting profession, being desirable on the silver screen, and he wasn’t Jason but he had decent lean muscles and thick dark blond hair and big hazel eyes, which he did quite like—and he had certainly been hit on by a variety of genders on previous occasions, so the interest shouldn’t’ve meant anything.

It shouldn’t’ve felt new. Like a first time. Like a breath of air, a surfacing from beneath ice. Like heat in his own veins.

Sam took him down the street, around a corner, and down another street; Leo blinked in surprise. “I didn’t expect—”

“Nah, people don’t. But Vegas isn’t all shiny lights and casinos. I like this place, when I’m here.”

Leo gazed around the pub, drinking in soothing if somewhat shabby oak, lapidary bottles behind the high bar, low tables and cozy booths, cheerful eddies and pools of voices. The pub opened up wooden arms in the manner of a place that’d seen a lot of stories, journalists, people who liked good whiskey and conversation. A few heads turned as they came in, but went back to their own business, undisturbed by the appearance of a moderately famous English actor in their midst. Leo hadn’t known what to expect; he hadn’t formed any expectations at all, though if he’d had to guess he’d’ve imagined Sam might’ve taken him someplace nearby and noisy and quintessentially Vegas, a perpetual party.

He did like this, though. Different, a surprise, and he enjoyed being surprised; but also calm and steady rather than clamorous and crowded. Intimate.

The sort of place, he thought, that you’d take someone on a date. If you wanted to talk to them, away from the world and the bustle of cameras and the actor’s life. If you looked at them and thought that perhaps they needed to feel seen.

Sam said, “I know it’s not as fancy as what you’re probably used to—”

“No, it’s lovely! It’s an oasis. What do you think is in that strangely curvaceous purple bottle? On the second shelf? I so very much want it to taste like berry pie.”

“I’ve never seen anyone drink it, so I’m gonna decide you’re right and it’s totally pie.” Sam’s smile reappeared; it’d grown briefly anxious when thinking about Leo Whyte and fancy destinations. “They have a pretty decent whisky list. And the bartender’s a friend.”

Leo eyed the bartender in question, who had Celtic tattoos along one arm and a lot of muscle, and who waved at Sam with enthusiasm. “The sort of friend who tells people that you’ve brought Leo Whyte in for a drink, and they should all flock over here with cameras, or the sort who doesn’t?”

“The second one.” Sam steered them toward a booth; Leo went along because that seemed the natural thing to do. “Brian’s a good guy. And no one’ll bother you in here, I promise.”

“No one other than you, you mean.”

“Hey, I already got you to go out with me.”

“Is that what we’re doing? It’s not the strangest way I’ve been asked out—which involved a trained carrier pigeon, by the way—but I wouldn’t say taking pictures of my friends counts as the best way, either.”

“It’s my job. Trained carrier pigeon?”

“It brought me a note on set. Tragically, the scheduling never worked out. Your job is terrible.”

“I know,” Sam said, and the resignation in the words caught Leo’s attention like the swoop of a butterfly-net: a capture, a trap, an ache of emotion. “But I’m not bad at it, and it pays the bills.”

“Surely you could do something else. Serving coffee. Competitive soap carving. Fashionable footwear modeling.”

“You think I’ve got cute feet?”

“I haven’t been able to form an opinion about your feet,” Leo said. “You’re wearing shoes.” Sam was, stylish but worn blue-and-white Converse. “You know what I mean.” The conversation was surreal, and the night was surreal, and for some reason he was now wondering about Sam’s ankles, about the line of that calf, how the shape of him would feel and whether those legs would be smooth or lightly fuzzy, under a curious hand.

Whisky arrived, courtesy of Brian the bartender, who gave Sam an unsubtle thumbs-up before departing. Leo wasn’t sure what this was intended to mean, and said so. “Or was I not supposed to notice that?”

“He tells me every time I come in here that I need to get laid, so I think he’s being encouraging.” Sam slid a glass over. “Try this.”

“How do you know I even like whisky?”

“I don’t, but I’m hoping?”

“Well,” Leo agreed, “you’re not wrong,” and took a sip. Honey and toffee and oak pooled across his tongue, and drenched the world in layers of sherry, vanilla, lingering spices. He took a breath, astonished.

“Thought you’d like that one,” Sam said, with satisfaction. “Sweet, and also complex.”

“Was that a compliment?”

“Totally.” That American accent—possibly even from here, Nevada or Vegas itself, Leo thought, though he was by no means an expert—delivered the word with extra certainty. The compliment was a compliment, and Sam wanted him, and Sam was sure about this.

Like the whisky, the surety filled up the night and lingered. Lamplight brushed Leo’s hand, a condensation-ring on the table, Sam’s smile. The pause was natural, and soft.

“You know,” Sam said after a moment, “I _am_ actually hitting on you. You know that, right? I like guys, and I think you’re gorgeous and interesting and genuinely nice, and I know I’m not anywhere close to being in your league, but I’m kind of hoping being all honest and obvious about asking wins me some points?”

Leo sat there in the wood-framed booth and stared at him. Could not, for once, think of anything at all to say.

“I mean,” Sam said, “I don’t expect anything, you’re you and I’m me, I know, I just—I like you and you already agreed to come here with me and I thought, well, if you did say yes—if you wanted, just tonight, one night, if I bought you a drink and we just…we could see how the night goes, maybe? If you want.”

“Ah,” Leo managed. “Er…but…look, for one thing, it’s Andy’s party…oh, sorry, that’d be Andrew—”

“—Connors. I know. And Jillian Poe, and your friends.” Sam got into a staring contest with his glass. “I get it. You’re busy and I do…what I do…and I shouldn’t’ve asked. Pretend I didn’t.”

“No, it’s fine, it’s only…I’m not actually gay?”

Sam choked on whisky.

“I don’t mean I’m exactly straight!” Leo panicked at him. “I mean… I don’t know what I mean. I do look at attractive men. Like you. You’re quite attractive. It’s just…I hadn’t really ever seriously thought about…but that doesn’t mean it’s not, er, an option…” The clarification wasn’t helping. Not for either of them.

Sam dropped his face into both hands. Muffled by fingers, got out, “Oh my god…I am _so_ sorry…oh god, you’re straight and I’m over here, like, asking you back to my hotel room…”

“I said I _wasn’t_ straight, exactly,” Leo pointed out, ruffled by the assumption. “And I’m flattered, not upset.”

“Oh god,” Sam mourned again, buried behind embarrassment. “And you’re _Leo Whyte_. I tried to hit on you.”

“Does that matter? I’m not exactly, oh, Colby Kent. I’m just me.”

Sam dropped the hands. Looked up and over. “I didn’t ask Colby out for a drink—”

“Which is good, because Jason would have something to say about that, doubtless involving those biceps—”

“—I asked _you_. And you _are_ pretty damn famous.”

“I’m not as famous as Colby is,” Leo said. True, and he didn’t mind it. He’d had a solid career so far, spanning period dramas and wartime epics and three seasons of a recurring role as a mischievous occasional adversary on a classic British science-fiction television show; he was doing fine. “It’s all right; you don’t have to flatter me.”

“But—” Sam stopped, took a drink. Leo watched his throat move, watched the shift and swallow. Sam met his eyes after, steady across the table and the space between them. “You’re good. On camera, in a group, an ensemble cast—you do the job. That came out wrong. I mean you don’t steal spotlights or jump up and down getting the camera to look at you, because you’re not _supposed_ to. You play the role, not the star persona. I do know who you are, you know.”

“Oh,” Leo said weakly; and then, flippant because anything else would leave his heart in tatters on the table right next to Sam’s hand and a glass of marvelous whisky, “I don’t know, _do_ you know me? You called me straight, just now.”

“You said you hadn’t ever even thought about—”

“I’m not opposed! It’s just I’ve never actually had sex—with a man! I mean sex with a man! I’ve definitely had sex! All the sex! It’s only—do I honestly qualify as gay or—or bisexual, or something, if I’ve never done anything about it?”

Sam’s eyebrows went up. “Never? Not _anything_?”

“I know,” Leo explained pathetically. Hopefully adorably pathetically. Possibly so. “I know, yes, it’s the film industry, and then tonight I was there with Jillian Poe and Colby Kent and basically literally zero straight people, and I flirt with everything, and believe me I’ve heard all the rumors about me and my sexuality, and I’m not _not_ interested. I’m quite interested. It’s only, er, in practice it’s always been women. So far.”

“But you said yes to having a drink with me.”

Leo squirmed a bit. Those aureate flecks, in those smoky brown eyes. So beautiful, so intense, examining his face as if Leo’s reply, at this moment, might be the most important sentence in the world. “I. Ah. You’re so—I wanted to—” Good god. He was Leo Whyte, quick-tongued and glib: he could do better than this. “I’m distracting you.”

Sam leaned back in his chair. “You definitely are that.”

“How’m I doing?”

“Nine out of ten, and don’t change the subject. You wanted to be here.”

_“Nine?”_

“You didn’t finish that thought about me.” Sam tilted that head, ran a tongue along his lower lip; Leo stared helplessly at the motion, the gesture, the thoughtful deliberation. “So I’d be your first.”

“I’m not a virgin!”

Sam cocked an eyebrow.

Leo glared. “I know what I enjoy. Which is _not_ degenerate American stalkers with cameras, thank you.”

“Degenerate?”

“Yes, it means—”

“I know what it means.” Sam grinned at him. “I like it. And so do you, if you’d admit it.”

Leo picked up his whisky. Faced down the gorgeous tempting challenge across the table. Tossed back half the glass. “Not happening.”

“What’re you afraid of?”

“Did you forget what you do for a living?”

Sam’s eyes did something complicated, then: between a wince and a regret, as if he had indeed forgotten. “Right. Sorry.”

“No offense, but I don’t trust you.”

“I wouldn’t either, if I were you.”

“Why am I _here?_ ” Leo eyed amber alcohol, swirled it around, searched for answers by closing one eye and peeking at the other side of the table through liquid and glass. “Why.”

“Because I asked,” Sam said, “and you said yes. I wouldn’t trust me, no, but I’d trust you.”

“I have not had nearly enough of the whisky that you’re paying for, the whisky paid for by you, the whisky I am not at all paying for, for that to make sense.”

Sam laughed.

Leo’s mobile buzzed. Jason. A text. Checking in. Being a good broad-shouldered shield. Taking on the responsibility of corralling lost group members.

Leo had never been known for being responsible. He did not answer.

“The thing is,” Sam said, “I’ve seen a lot of celebrities. And I saw you, tonight.”

“Yes, you did, and you’ve got photographs—”

“No, listen.” Sam put elbows on the table, leaned forward, held out hands. “You’re a good person, Leo Whyte.”

“All right,” Leo said, “we’re done, thanks,” and set his glass down and moved to get up. His chest hurt, sharp and shocked; he resisted the impulse to put a hand to his throat, to find the knot stuck there. “I think I’ve distracted you enough.”

“What—hang on, wait, dammit.” Sam grabbed his hand. Leo sat back down because that seemed easiest and not at all because the hand felt nice when he’d gone a bit cold.

Sam went on, “I’m not making fun of you or anything, seriously—does no one ever tell you that?”

“Does no one ever tell me what?”

“You know what I saw tonight? I saw someone trying to help his friends. When it was going to cost you something. And you did it without thinking twice.”

“It doesn’t cost me anything,” Leo said. “I’m good at publicity. It’s just another photograph. And _nobody_ takes me seriously.” Surprised, he heard the edge to the words—he’d meant them lightly—and stopped talking. The knot in his throat grew more.

“Well, they should.” Sam hadn’t let go of his hand. “I know I’m just some degenerate American stalker with a camera. But I saw you being kind. I _saw_ you. And that matters. Wanting to help people.”

“I don’t—” Leo shook his head. Found other things, not Sam’s face, to hide in. The worn dark leather of their booth. The sturdy wood of their table. The way low bar-light caught the curve of a glass and spun it into a reflection, a line of gold, something new. “You know my reputation. Why would you think I’ve got any altruistic motives?”

“Don’t you?” Sam regarded him evenly. Tapped fingers over Leo’s captive hand. Somehow this drumming—light and repetitive and possessive—settled Leo’s heartbeat. Made it match that rhythm, finding a cadence to follow. “I think you do.”

“You don’t _know_ me,” Leo said. It was a protest, a counterargument, a fear. Because he was afraid.

He was afraid that Sam had seen him, or at least the him he’d want to be, if he could. He was afraid he wasn’t that person and never had been. He was afraid that every word hanging in the air was some sort of lie, something Sam’d glimpsed that was better and brighter and more true than Leo Whyte could hope to become.

He was also a bit worried by the state of his trousers, or more accurately the astonished and undeniable arousal inside his trousers.

Sam’s hand remained covering his, tanned and large and tangible. Sam’s eyes stayed on him, taking him in, taking him, yes, seriously. Wanting him, and not shy about it.

Leo wanted to ask for a hug or possibly cry into his whisky or beg Sam to put that hand someplace else, much lower and currently stiff as a ship’s mast. He spent a second attempting to process this collision of reactions.

His mobile buzzed again. Still Jason. _You OK?_

This time he grabbed it. A solid shape among shifting sands. _No need to worry. Look after our favorite rainbow unicorn for me. Be right over._

“Your friends,” Sam said, watching.

“My…yes. I should. Er. Go. Catch up.”

“They care.”

“They’re concerned they’ve lost a group member. Jason frets. He’s a shepherd at heart. Bit overprotective really, but Colby loves it.”

“And you care about them.” Sam’s gaze, Sam’s hand, were both heartbreakingly gentle. “And they want you to join them. And I want you here with me. I want you, Leo.”

“Don’t—” Leo started, and stopped, and squeezed both eyes shut for a second. Too much, too enormous, too glorious and painful. He couldn’t hear it. Couldn’t let the universe hear it. “You don’t have to—I mean, of course you want me, I’m entirely want-able, I’m a wonder of the world. I can ride a unicycle and apparently I’ve got distressingly good aim with a bow and arrow, or so said our archery coach on _Green Knight_. So if you ever need either of those skills, let me know.”

Sam sighed. Deeply.

“I’m also good at buying sex toys? If someone’s too embarrassed about something, I’ll happily get it for them.”

This got a laugh. “Figures. I’ve seen—” Sam cut himself off there, but Leo knew where the sentence’d been going. He filled in, “The photographs? Me walking out of that shop with, which one was it, the alien tentacle dildo? Or the one shaped like a rocket ship? I knew there’d be pictures.”

“I didn’t take them.” Sam had gone pink under the tan. “I wasn’t there.”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you had. Neither of those was for me, by the way, but I can’t tell you who they were on behalf of.” He’d even done some dramatic swooping gestures with the rocket, for the paparazzi. “I haven’t bought anything like that in a while, mind you. I wonder if the media thinks I’ve grown less kinky? Or perhaps I’m simply very satisfied with my purchases?”

“Leo Whyte,” Sam said, and shook his head, and laughed a little. “I don’t know what I was expecting, but you’re not whatever it would’ve been.”

“I do try to confound expectations. I should go, before Jason’s muscles implode from the strain of not collecting a wayward sheep…” He hadn’t moved.

“You should.” Sam, being decisive for both of them, slid out of the booth: got up, left money, held out a hand. “Come here.”

Leo took the hand, getting up as well. He did not mind Sam taking charge, thinking about Leo’s obligations, helping ensure he returned to them. He liked the hand-holding, also.

It felt good. It felt like being seen.

They went out the door—Brian the bartender beamed and threw an encouraging American thumbs-up—and took a step onto the sdewalk, at which point Sam tugged him around a corner and into a side alleyway: deserted, clean by Vegas standards, patterned in tipsy tilted light and shadow. The camera swung, slung over a shoulder.

Leo inquired, “Am I being nefariously kidnapped? Was that your plan? And where are you taking me?” Sam hadn’t let go of his hand, and in fact had drawn him closer, fingers skimming Leo’s wrist, dipping beneath the edge of a sleeve, and oh Leo’s arm had never felt so much like sparklers fizzing away—

Sam laughed, which was good; Leo’d meant the line as a joke. “No kidnapping. I’ll call you a cab. Or a limo. Or whatever you want. But first—”

“But first what?” They had ended up standing close together, up against each other; Leo had gone along willingly, and now his heart was thumping madly and Sam’s body was firm and hot and right there pressed to his, Sam’s hand lifting, stroking back his hair, cradling his face…in a side alley by a pub, in the whirlwind carnival of Las Vegas, in the midst of this whole dizzy celebratory weekend…

Leo had never wanted to be touched so badly by anyone. He’d never been so aware of his own body, the rigid radiant line of his cock, the pulse of his blood. Not with anyone. Not like this.

“First this.” Sam moved, drew closer, eyes intent and hazel-gold as promises. His lips were a breath away; his words were warm. “I would’ve asked you back to my hotel room…or yours…wherever. I’d’ve jumped into bed with you and done, hell, everything—everything that’d make you feel good, so good, so amazing. The way you deserve. But you deserve better than that, too. Your friends, your party, your life. Not some guy with a camera who’s gonna send pictures of you to his editor. Not one random night in a cheap motel.”

“What if,” Leo inquired unsteadily, “I wouldn’t mind a cheap motel?” He imagined he could taste the whisky again, fiery and scorching and delicious as pleasure.

“No.” Sam touched a finger to Leo’s lips. “You should have silk sheets. Strawberries. Champagne. Or good whisky. Don’t think I don’t want you, because I do—I want you so damn much, and that _is_ me being serious—and I can’t believe I’m telling you to go. Even though I am. You have places to be, and people to be with. But…”

“But?”

“But I want to kiss you.” Sam’s other hand had found Leo’s waist, and tugged their bodies even closer; Sam was also hard beneath denim, Leo discovered: hard and thick and clearly aroused by him. By this: by them together. “You said you’d never done anything with a guy, and that’s some sort of crime against humanity, you being interested and never getting even kissed, and I want you to know how really fuckin’ bad I want to kiss you, right now.”

“So…so why aren’t you?”

“Because I’m asking first.” Sam’s hand had made its way to the back of Leo’s neck, and stayed there. Leo’s neck shivered and tingled and learned how to yearn for exactly that. “I know this is new and I’m not gonna just jump on you with my mouth in an alleyway. So I’m asking, Leo Whyte, can I kiss you?”

“Yes,” Leo breathed. “Yes, please.”

Sam kissed him. And the world became spectacular.

Sam tasted like good whisky—Leo himself must’ve also—and kissed without demands but with experience and control: guiding, initiating, leading. His mouth was honeyed and hot and came with a small scrape of evening stubble, and his tongue teased Leo’s mouth, beckoning, slipping in, flirting.

Kissing Sam was not like kissing anyone else ever, Leo concluded hazily: it wasn’t even about Sam not being a woman, or the way they were so nearly the same height, or the way their arousal fit and pushed together, mutual. Kissing Sam felt like kissing sunshine, if sunshine knew what it was doing and knew how to nibble and lick and gently but commandingly tangle a hand into Leo’s hair.

He tried to kiss back, to reciprocate, to show his absolute eagerness. Sam smiled—Leo could feel it—and murmured into the kiss, “So damn perfect…”

“I’m…mmm…not… _oh_.” Sam was kissing his neck now, which had developed a direct line to Leo’s knees and the weakness thereof. “Oh, that, yes…”

“Delicious.” Sam drew back, leaned in as if unable to help himself, and landed one more kiss on Leo’s mouth: quick at first, but slow to pull away. “God, you’re amazing. Saying yes, wanting more, wanting it all…oh, hell. One more.”

One more kiss meant quite a lot of tongue, and Sam’s hands running along Leo’s back, pulling him in and holding him there as if keeping him safe. Leo wanted to be kept by Sam. Wanted to feel Sam’s hands on his bare skin. His jacket and shirt were in the way. Too many clothes.

He’d been kissed before. He knew about desire.

He’d never been kissed like this before. And he couldn’t recall the last time desire had felt like this: a paradox of sweetness and flame, sizzling need and sheer exuberant rightness. The thrill and the shock: kissing Sam, who had a camera, who’d followed them and taken pictures of them and then bought him a drink and told him he was worthwhile. Firecrackers, but tinged with melancholy: Sam was moving back, letting him go.

Leo, breathless, could only stand without moving. He knew his lips were parted, no doubt kiss-pink and shiny; he couldn’t stop looking at Sam.

Who hooked thumbs into jeans pockets, shifted weight, offered a smile: wry and fond and sad. “You should go. I won’t keep you.”

“But,” Leo said. The world had changed. He had changed. Or maybe he hadn’t: maybe all of him had always been wanting exactly this.

Sam just gave him a small head-tilt, still smiling, though the smile hoisted banners to hide a bruise. His hair was a bit mussed, short fluffy dark waves rumpled; his eyes held fascinating shades of brown, topaz and tiger’s-eye and sun-kissed earth.

Leo wanted to touch him. Wanted to touch him everyplace: hands, waist, those muscular thighs, those expressive lips.

He should perhaps feel more confused, more astonished at himself, more dazed by this shift in self-perception and the reality of kissing a man; he would feel it all, probably, later. Just now Sam was his clarity. The sharpest brightest part of a color-soaked kaleidoscopic world.

He knew that much. He did not know what it would mean, all the implications, but he knew he’d liked it.

He said, “Will I see you again?”

Sam’s expression changed. “You mean will I keep following you around?”

“No. Or yes, if that’s how I get to see you.” He took a breath, pleaded, “I’ll make another spectacle out of myself. Jump into a fountain. Buy American fast food. Anything.”

“You would, too.”

“I would. Will you at least come to the premiere? _Steadfast_. Our movie. Colby and Jill have decided on a February date. Though—I don’t know how your job works, if you can even come to London—if I send you a ticket or a press pass or something—”

“My job,” Sam said, half amused, half regretful, “is whatever gets the celebrity money shot. I go where that is.”

“There’ll be a lot of us on the red carpet, if that helps? You can take pictures. If you need to. For your job.”

“You want me there.” Sam raised eyebrows. Polite and incredulous. Another emotion underneath. “Most people—”

“I’m not most people.”

“No.” Sam’s fingers twitched: almost a reaching out, perhaps, though in the end he only adjusted a camera-strap. “You’re you. I’ll…see what I can do.”

“It’s a newsworthy occasion. All those stories about Colby and Jason…their first red carpet as a couple…oh, and Sir Laurence Taylor will be there! If you want a legend for some photographs.”

“You don’t need to convince me,” Sam said, “I want to. I don’t know if I can, but…I want to.”

Leo’s mobile phone, in his pocket, buzzed again. A sparkly drag revue awaited. Celebrations and exuberance and bottles of champagne. Discussions of wedding plans and that upcoming musical Jill and Andy were now convinced they should all film.

Leo was not an especially good singer. He wasn’t outright dreadful, or he didn’t think so, but he wouldn’t advertise it as a particular talent, either. He’d happily join Colby’s fictional band on stage, though, perhaps doing the acting version of learning to play bass or the drums. He wanted to be involved; he wanted to be part of the story.

Not the superstar, he thought. Someone who got the job done. The sidekick, the second in command, the comic relief.

But Sam had seen him. Had looked at him and asked to kiss him. Had told him that he, Leo Whyte, was worth that: the asking, the respect, and the wanting.

Sam was summoning a cab, because Leo hadn’t managed to think about anything practical yet; it was right down the street, apparently, and came promptly. Sam stayed with him, even opened the door for him, touched his hand: a brief brush of fingertips.

“Sam,” Leo said, hopelessly.

“Go on,” Sam said, “have fun, Leo Whyte,” and stepped back: back into the swirl of Las Vegas flair, a sidewalk, a thrumming ocean of bodies and stories and vibrant life. The cab driver cleared his throat and asked about the destination, confirming. Leo answered without really looking around.

He kept gazing out the window instead. Sam was out there. Sam was out there in the night, camera at the ready, doing his job.

Of course it was only one night. Not even a night. An hour. A glimpse. And Sam took celebrity pictures for a living, and Leo Whyte was a celebrity, at least a minor one; they might’ve kissed, they might’ve shared a drink, Sam might’ve excavated the deepest most lonely piece of Leo’s soul, but that couldn’t mean anything, surely?

They couldn’t have a future. Leo couldn’t expect that. In all likelihood he’d never see Sam Hernandez-Blake again.

He’d have the memory. This night. A moment that was his: his and Sam’s. Not for social media or gossip or loudly sharing. A kiss.

He’d thought initially that he might tell the story. He’d’ve told it to actor and industry acquaintances for laughs: a new adventure, an illicit crossing of invisible borders between professions, a provocation.

He wouldn’t. Didn’t want to, somehow.

He touched a finger to his own lips, a memory. He kept it there, unspoken.

He settled back into the seat, and let the cab take him over to his friends, only slightly late for the show; he smiled reassuringly when Colby leaned over to ask whether he was all right, and he even apologized when Jason grumbled about unanswered texts. He meant the apology. He had not wanted Jason to worry, not really.

Not that the worry was directed at Leo himself. Might’ve been anyone. Anybody Jason’s big arms and big heart decided to collect. Leo Whyte just happened to be in the vicinity of all that overflowing care. Nothing personal. He knew.

And that was fine; that was all right; that was exactly right. Jason was a good man—they all were, the whole group of them—and couldn’t be expected to care beyond general genial friendliness, or to pay any attention at all to Leo’s silliness. That’d be asking too much. By far. And anyway Jason needed to focus on Colby, who shone with that support, emerging from pain into coruscating triumph and writing success and the knowledge of love.

Music swooped through the venue like sequins and glitter; their private box had a marvelous view, and the show was a good one, funny and over-the-top and full of color and feathers and style and unabashedly campy joy. Leo appreciated cabaret and props and theatricality; he sat back and watched, both the performances and his people. Andy and Jill had acquired pink sparkly drinks, which matched Andy’s newfound pink sparkly top hat; Colby was chattering about the rainbow ribbons being displayed in someone’s costume and simultaneously being cuddled up against Jason, who every so often murmured something to him or stroked his hair or kissed him.

Leo’s heart approved. Colby had needed that: someone who’d give him the attention, the affection, the protection, that he’d been so obviously starved for. And Jason had needed someone to care for, to direct all that love and compassion toward. They were right together. The way Andy and Adrian were, as well: good people finding each other, finding where they fit, in the whole huge world.

He thought about rightness. He thought, while ribbons fluttered on stage and a laughing voice sang about having too many men and too many choices, about warmth and the taste of whisky.

He thought about Sam and Sam’s mouth on his. The thought unfolded like a love-letter: private, profound, kept secret in his chest.

He wondered whether Sam would in fact appear in London in February. He knew the chances were slender; he knew this whole night was a fantasy, a dream, a moment out of time and reality. He’d take that much gladly, without regret.

Nevertheless—

He wanted those dancing tawny eyes to turn up. He wanted to share _Steadfast_ with them; he thought Sam might understand, might be swept away by the story, the love of two men through Regency-era ballrooms and battleships. He wanted to know whether Sam liked romance or history or spy stories, and whether he liked popcorn at movies, and how he’d react to some of Leo’s own favorite scenes, from shipwrecks to quiet understated sympathy for his fictional captain’s difficult love.

He wanted to try kissing a man, kissing _Sam_ , again.

He wanted more.

He might not ever have it.

But the wanting felt right as well: something he’d learned tonight, coming into focus as true as hope, as curiosity, as gold.


	2. premiere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam Hernandez-Blake, having charmed his way into the press tangle by the metaphorical skin of his teeth, forgot to feel utterly naked and out of place in his rented inexpensive suit and lack of tie, and got swept up in _Steadfast_ instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, these two will manage to have sex before we hit the 90k word count! As in, chapter three! *stares at Colby and Jason meaningfully*

Leo had been to very many premieres in his actor’s life. He was an expert, if there was such a thing: energetic on red carpets, quirkily humorous for interviews and sound bites, willing to pull faces at cameras or run over and tackle castmates into full-body hugs.

He should be perfectly relaxed. He should be immune to anxiety and the creeping nibbling tiny teeth that gnawed away inside.

He sat with one hand on the limousine’s door. He did not get up. The teeth gnawed some more.

Nothing to do with the film—he knew it was good. Nothing to do with the premiere—he honestly did like premieres. Nothing to do with his suit—he liked that too, expensive and velvety and rose-gold as a sunrise, nothing as boring as black or blue. He’d picked it on first sight, out of the options his stylist’d waved at him.

He’d wanted to look good. He’d wanted…

No. That was silly. Months ago. Sam wouldn’t’ve come. Sam had a demanding job and lived in America and probably went around kissing men all the time and almost certainly had never given fourth-billed and featherheaded actor Leo Whyte another thought.

“Hey,” Tim nudged, leaning forward in their shared limo. Timothy Hayes was a good kid, Leo’d decided: eager and talented, enthusiastic about acting, a whole future ahead of him. All of this meant that Leo’d had no qualms about including Tim in on-set pranks, both as target and as assistant. The kid needed to learn early how to look innocent when pouring real rum into cups of punch for an on-camera ballroom scene.

Tim at the moment raised eyebrows at him. “You getting out, or are we staying here all night? It’s a nice limo and all, but I kind of want to see our movie, grandpa.” Despite the teasing, his eyes watched Leo’s expression; he’d been learning from Colby, also. Lots of compassion there. Getting good at empathy. Dangerous, that.

He said back, “No candy at the movies for _you_ , young man, with that attitude,” and took a deep breath. Opened the door.

The noise hit first, as it always did: a swelling roar that never failed to lift his steps and his spirits. Cheers. Calls to look over, to smile, to wave. Camera-clicks. Glamor and glitter and fame; it felt like being loved, and it reminded him that he did love this, all of it. The profession, the chance to tell stories, the way those stories meant so much to audiences and fans. He’d been to conventions, especially for that science-fiction series; he’d held fans’ shaking hands, and given hugs, and been awed by the passion and creativity. And he remained in awe of it all, though nobody’d believe him if he tried to explain with any degree of sincerity how honored he felt.

At the last convention he’d settled for walking out on stage in full space-magician villain costume and shouting “Kneel before your master!” at the crowd. They’d loved it. So had he.

The press swung cameras and microphones his way. He gazed out at them all. He caught himself looking for dark wavy hair, tanned skin, golden-brown eyes.

He made himself beam at a journalist or two. He recognized several of them: familiar faces on the entertainment beat. He smiled and answered a few questions: yes, he was excited for this film; yes, he loved the story and the era and the costumes; yes, he’d really learned to fire the ship’s historic guns, though he’d not been the one doing most of the loading and firing on camera.

He hugged a few fans as they leaned over barricades. He signed some posters, posed for selfies, complimented someone’s shirt—it had a unicorn riding a unicycle on the front—and ran a step or two to catch up with Tim, who’d stopped, looking mildly overwhelmed. “Don’t worry, babe, they’re all here for me.”

“As if,” Tim retorted over an uneven exhale, “they’re here for Colby and Jason, really,” which covered up the attack of red-carpet shyness, so Leo only draped an arm over his shoulders and refused to think about the fact that even Tim considered Leo Whyte essentially secondary.

Colby and Jason were the story. All the stories: on-set romance, drama, injuries, true love. Everyone understood as much. And he wasn’t envious, or he didn’t think he was. He tried not to be an envious person, mostly.

One of the reporters called over, “Leo, who’d you bring as a date?” She even glanced around as if afraid she’d missed someone.

Leo put on an even larger smile. Squeezed Tim’s shoulders. “You mean this adorable one isn’t enough? Look at those pinchable cheeks, those big brown eyes…”

“Shh,” Tim said, “my girlfriend’s not supposed to know about us,” and batted the eyes in question at Leo: playing flirtation up for the cameras, and a good sport about it.

The question stung, though, and the sting lingered. Burning. Acid over skin, eating away protective layers.

He hadn’t invited anyone to this premiere. He normally did: a casual girlfriend or one or two of the friends he’d made on previous productions or even his parents, which fans and the media always loved. He liked sharing the experience with people; he liked getting to see them watch his films, the reactions, the emotions. He ended up watching his guests, rather than the film in question, more often than not.

He _had_ thought about calling up a date, at least a platonic one. Adriana Cruz had just finished filming that new secret-agent thriller, and she was generally fun company, more of a friend now that the brief romantic fling was over; Matt Grant would be around, taking his British-actor rite-of-passage turn at Hamlet here in London, and Matt was always up for afterparties and enthusiasm on a red carpet. And of course his mother and father would’ve run right over from respective theatre-managing and college-of-dentistry department-chair meetings if asked.

He hadn’t asked. Hadn’t wanted to. He didn’t even know why.

No, that was a lie. He knew.

The person he wanted to talk to had large warm hands, and good taste in whisky, and a terrifying profession. The person he wanted to share this story with— _this_ story, about love between men, love amid war, love that became a banner raised high in celebration—had looked at him under Las Vegas lights and had thought that Leo Whyte was someone worthwhile.

He spotted Colby and Jason—impossible to miss, what with Colby’s hair and Jason’s shoulders—ahead on the red carpet. Waved. Ran over, trailing other cast members in his wake. Whipped out his phone and captured a snapshot or two of the moment, of Colby’s subtly rainbow-lined suit and Jason’s bisexual flag pocket square, because the social media army would expect it and he did want to share.

He liked sharing. He always had.

Colby and Jason said hello to everyone, Leo and Tim and Kate Fisher and Jim Whitwell; Jim, being fatherly, started asking Tim about his girlfriend and her band’s mega-hit success. Tim got happier, chattering away about Beth and love songs; Colby looked at Leo and said thoughtfully, “I’m not certain I properly said thank you for intervening with the paparazzi at Andy’s stag night—er, bachelor party, for the Americans among us, sorry—you know what I mean, though. Thank you.”

Leo, moderately unnerved by this mindreading, said, “What? Oh, right, yes, of course,” and hoped those inquisitive blue eyes would find another distraction. Maybe Jason could be convinced that Colby needed cuddling. The air felt a bit chilly. London in February and all.

He spared a moment to envision Jason Mirelli sweeping Colby Kent up in both arms, bridal style, on the red carpet. Colby would certainly appreciate the muscles; the cameras would have a field day with the gesture. But Jason would have to be convinced that Colby required actual carrying, which would cause extra knightly worry, and then Colby also got a bit skittish around crowds and too much physical contact and touching remained a problem, though of course touching from _Jason_ did not seem to be a problem, so probably that would be all right. Jason’s big arms could likely carry both Colby and Leo, and Leo would gleefully be swept off his feet, except that didn’t actually seem the sort of thing that was likely to happen, because if anyone was going to do any romantic gestures for Leo Whyte it’d be, well, Leo himself, based on previous experience, and also Sam wasn’t even here, which would’ve been some sort of romantic gesture, only it _wasn’t_ , obviously, because Sam wasn’t—

Colby had carried on talking. Guiltily, Leo tuned back in. “—and then of course Jason and I had the threesome on stage with the drag queen, and—”

“You did not,” Leo interrupted promptly. “And if you did I want pictures. Proof. Photographic evidence.” Like the sort Sam would’ve acquired.

 _Why_ were all his thoughts about Sam? The man wasn’t even present.

He checked the line of press-shaped bodies again just to be sure.

“Okay,” Jason said, “what’s going on? Someone you know, someone you’re expecting, someone you don’t want to see, what?”

“No one,” Leo said. “He’s not—I’m not—I mean, nothing. I mean I’m fine and what was that about Colby being into threesomes with drag queens, again?”

“No, thank you.” Colby waved a graceful hand. “Only Jason, for me. Though, in terms of clothing…that one outfit with the rainbow ribbons was rather intriguing…”

“You know you can tell us,” Jason attempted. Leo appreciated the gesture, though he knew that was simply Jason’s innate bodyguard-for-the-world nature: nothing to do with Leo himself, a friend made via proximity, in the way of film sets and press tours and camaraderie. Jason went on, “We can help, if something’s going on. It’s not that obnoxious journalist guy, is it? Is he stalking you?”

“His name’s Sam, not Obnoxious Journalist Guy—” Which he’d now said aloud. Damn.

“ _Is_ it,” Jim Whitwell said, reappearing in an avuncular swirl of interest and a gleam of complimentary cocktail glass. “And who _is_ Sam, Leo?”

Deflect, distract, dazzle. Make jokes. Be random. Be himself. Leo Whyte. “Why aren’t we talking about Colby saying he’d wear a drag queen’s rainbow ribbons? That’s an important development and I want to know more. I will absolutely go shopping for ribbons if necessary. Any preferred fabric or finish? Oh, hi, yes, ask us anything—”

A reporter had come up. She waved a microphone at them with intent. “What can you tell us about the sex scenes in this film? How excited should we be?”

Jason glanced at Colby. Colby smiled angelically and offered, “Very. I certainly was; have you _seen_ Jason? I’m quite fortunate, you know.”

Leo fake-smothered a cough of, “We _all_ know,” which made the bodies closest to him chortle; and then he took the opportunity to step back, out, away from the camera-eyes for an instant.

A breath. Two. Exhaling.

Some more commotion happened. More big names. Sir Laurence Taylor, stepping out of a car with that Hollywood-legend charm and poise. Chatter on the red carpet as he encountered a famously reclusive author, the man without whom none of them would be here. Leo knew Colby had read and loved the novel, and had actually gone out to that tiny village and asked George Forrest’s permission to change the ending; Leo himself would’ve never done that. He might’ve thought about it, but would’ve hesitated to disturb someone who wanted to be left alone; he would’ve not taken action.

Colby, in defiance of all his own old scars and the weight of his past, had. And now Sir Laurence was talking to George, who if Leo was any judge was quite cheerfully grumpily interested in continuing the conversation, and they were all here, at this film premiere, with this glorious happy ending about to be showcased. No wonder Colby Kent was the hero. He deserved to be.

Leo, who did adore Colby, turned away and took a step—to go inside the theatre, to find a drink, to find a men’s room, he didn’t know—and happened to glance out at the crowd one last time, gaze falling blankly over bodies.

He caught a glimpse of dark messy hair, stubble over a strong jaw, treasure-chest eyes.

He froze.

The crowd eddied and swirled. Leo lost track of the place he’d been looking.

Voices murmured. Celebrity wranglers. Staff. Telling him to come along, to come in, they were about to start.

“Wait—” Leo said. “Wait, I—there’s someone—”

“Someone you want to speak to?” The staff person checked her watch. Her eyes were pale blue as sympathy, half a foot below his and glancing up. “I’m sorry but we really don’t have time—if you give me a name I’ll try to arrange something after—”

“Sam,” Leo whispered. Colby and Jason were heading over, everyone else following, aiming for the grand theatre doors and the first-ever showing of this film, this epic love tale— “Sam Hernandez-Blake. I don’t know if—I only thought I saw—but if he’s here…”

“We’ll find him if he is.” She set a hand on his arm. “This way, please.”

Leo went, obediently. He took a seat in the reserved row, and smiled at Jim and Tim and Katie as they plopped down beside him. He leaned around to say to Colby, “If Jason’s shoulders don’t fit in these antique seats I’m sure they can bring in another option,” because Colby was looking a little anxious, though whether that was about the crowds or the film Leo wasn’t sure.

“I like the seats,” Colby said, holding Jason’s hand. “I like the velvet.”

“Of course you do. Secret hedonist. Which I _knew_ you were. Anyone who likes cheese that much obviously also likes velvet.”

“I don’t even pretend to know,” Jason rumbled, “how your mind works.”

“Darling.” Leo batted eyelashes at him. “You couldn’t comprehend it. No need to try.” The eyelash-batting was also an excuse to twist round and peek back at the theatre. No, too many people, all finding seats and shuffling around. Too difficult to pick out one man.

“Yeah,” Jason said, “incomprehensible sounds about right. If you’re still looking for your annoying paparazzi guy, we can try to find him for you. People tell Colby everything.”

“I’m not,” Leo denied immediately. “No need to invoke Colby’s superpowers on my behalf. Actually, no, never mind, invoke them. Get someone to tell you where I can find the best chocolate martini in London. Then make them bring us all a round.”

“His name was Sam, wasn’t it?” Colby’s smile was a gift: quiet and lordly and generous. “That must’ve meant something, if you’re thinking about him after all this time. We’d like to help, if it’s important.”

“Don’t,” Leo muttered, embarrassment now eating a hole through his chest. Colby and Jason had enough to worry about; they didn’t need to be concerned over his wistfulness about a man he’d likely only imagined in any case. “You don’t have to—”

Tim leaned over to hiss, “All of you shut up, come on, _I’m_ supposed to be the dramatic teenager here, and Jill’s getting up to make a speech!”

“Sorry!” Colby said, to which everyone rolled eyes—Colby, out of them all, had the least to apologize for—but no one had time to scold him, because Jillian was indeed getting up on stage, grinning ear to ear.

In pink and black ruffles and leather straps, a casual rock-star director with freshly retouched color in her hair, she looked younger than half of them—she wasn’t, Leo knew—and utterly thrilled to be here; that was Jillian Poe all over. Someone who loved her profession and her craft, and the stories she got to shape and oversee and offer to the world. He’d been fortunate in getting to work with her; he hoped to again.

If she’d liked working with him. If she thought Leo Whyte was worth having around, on a film set. If.

Jill thanked everyone for coming, briefly introduced the film, mentioned how passionate they’d all been about this project. Hearts and souls committed. A love story that needed telling. A history brought to light. She kept it quick, and sat back down.

Passionate, Leo thought. Had he been?

He’d loved the story, of course. Stephen and Will were brilliant central characters, and their love mattered, and the script had been among the best he’d ever read. He’d wanted to be a part of it and he’d wanted to work with Jillian Poe and Colby Kent.

But he hadn’t loved it the way Colby had, the kind of love that’d read the source novel multiple times and wept over it and rewritten it. He hadn’t been so caught up in character that he’d broken on set and begun crying for his near-death fictional other half, the way Jason had.

Maybe Leo Whyte just wasn’t good at love. Not epic. Too shallow. A puddle, not a towering ocean.

Leo Whyte fell out of boats while filming and laughed about it. Leo Whyte spent off hours orchestrating a delivery of a nineteen-eighties vintage mermaid-comedy movie poster just to tease his director about an early crush. Leo Whyte did not have deep conversations with silver-screen legends like Sir Laurence Taylor; what would they talk about? The time Leo’d convinced set decorators and carpenters to construct an entire second trailer _around_ Tom Bradshaw’s trailer, so that when he’d stepped out he’d still been inside?

Tom had been a good sport and laughed. Sir Laurence would likely not laugh.

Leo’s chest hurt slightly, a bizarre hollow ache. He did not like that feeling, so he watched his movie instead.

On screen, he and Jason emerged into London streets: a captain and a loyal lieutenant, facing the wilds of polite Society. A mission. A goal. No less vital than those at sea: the desperate need for more men, more provisions, support from the Admiralty. Hence this ball: political connections, maneuvering, patronage.

Leo spared a thought for how dashing he appeared in period naval attire—his arms really did look splendid in that coat—and then watched Jason acting.

Jason Mirelli was good. Leo saw that in a heartbeat, the way he’d seen it on set previously: a man of action, certainly, but the action-hero label would never be all that Jason was, not after tonight. Not with that complicated and contradictory emotion so skillfully portrayed: Stephen’s loathing of aristocratic games and awareness that he himself needed to play them, and the secret he hid about the directions of his desires.

Leo had had such _fun_ playing off that broad-shouldered serious nuance. He could trust Jason to get the layers of a scene, a line, a simple glance of comprehension.

He took in the moment of Colby’s appearance on screen: bright and scholarly and sickly, enthusiastic about frogs and mathematics, afraid of nothing other than running out of time. The audience made appreciative noises about Colby’s beauty: bathed in sunshine, in a meadow, shirt fluttering open.

The film shimmered, and soared, and sizzled where it should, and swept them all away like sails full of wind, breathless.

Leo watched Jason and Colby flee a ballroom and run through a door and tumble into a historic library, hands and mouths busy, finding each other; he knew how hard that scene would’ve been, back when Colby did not like being touched, when even these days roughness might still hurt in ways both physical and not. He saw Stephen and Will coming together; he saw Colby trusting Jason, on camera.

That odd tiny spear poked him in the chest again. Not big, not hard. A small knitting-needle. A pointed tip. Not worth paying any mind.

He hoped Sam had come. He hoped Sam liked this film. It was good, and he was proud of it, and he’d given his all to the character of Richard Harper, supporting Jason’s Captain Stephen Lanyon in battle and in love. He hoped that’d been enough.

On screen, at that Earl’s party, Richard drank some port, chatted with a lord, glanced around for his missing captain. The moment was mildly funny, mildly sweet, a bit wry: Stephen’s falling in love was not, after all, their mission. And Richard would stay in the ballroom and attempt to navigate those tricky political waters, and draw no attention to his captain’s vanishing with the Stonebrook heir.

The moment worked, multifaceted if quick. Leo thought that he’d managed it well. He wanted to believe that he had.

Samuel Hernandez-Blake, having charmed his way into the press tangle by the metaphorical skin of his teeth, forgot to feel utterly naked and out of place in his rented inexpensive suit and lack of tie, and got swept up in _Steadfast_ instead. Watching the luscious color-drenched epic love story between two men, across history and a war and a viscount’s title. Watching Leo Whyte most of all, up there on the screen and larger than life.

Larger than life, he thought; and glanced down many rows to find the back of Leo’s head, the fashionable upswept hair, the sort of stylish sandy blond that verged on brown like concealed veins of deep earth. Leo Whyte did not feel the glance and turn his way, because life was not a fairytale and Sam was nobody’s destined true love.

Leo Whyte _was_ larger than life. That description sounded apt. Fitting. Just right for a man who had a flourishing film career, who had millions of social media followers and fans, who played lighthearted jokes on co-stars and made everybody laugh, and who had the sort of heart that’d step in front of a camera-bullet to protect friends.

Sam had wanted to kiss him on the spot. And then to shake him a little, because how could someone so amazing not see his own worth? How’d someone so full of affection ended up so blatantly lonely? How had no one else ever seen that hurt?

Maybe he wanted to shake the world, not Leo Whyte. Everybody who’d ever made those movie-star hazel eyes ache with self-doubt.

Leo on screen, in a role, played support like he’d been born to do it: funny and faithful and determined, letting Colby Kent and Jason Mirelli shine. But Sam ended up watching him, even if he stood in the background: Leo was always doing something, an expression, a reaction, a small character note. He did not steal the show, but he was working, building a scene, adding to the world.

Leo Whyte also looked damn good in Regency-era naval uniform. Those firm thighs. The shift of nicely muscled shoulders under a coat, and the long plane of his back as he turned to speak to a midshipman, and the curve of that delectable ass under costume fabric. Not overly bulky, but definitively masculine, and comfortable in his body, strong and relaxed. Sam shifted in his seat. Crossed legs.

He’d kissed Leo Whyte, in a late-night enchantment woven of whisky and want and courage. His hands recalled the feeling of Leo’s back, shoulders, body. Of a strand of Leo’s hair, being stroked back into place by his fingers.

He didn’t know why he’d come here, now, to this theatre. He didn’t know what he’d hoped for, what he could’ve hoped for, what he thought he was doing.

He’d begged and pleaded and argued for this assignment. He mostly worked freelance—contract jobs, tabloids, whoever’d pay for the picture of the day—but he had a few steady employers, magazines and editors with whom he’d established a mutually reliable relationship over the years. They could trust him to get good useable snapshots and write some quick copy to go underneath; he liked being paid and working with editors he at least knew and understood.

Liking the editor in question was a whole different issue. Sam did not particularly enjoy meeting with Jameson Jay, who ran the _Daily World News_ with a steely-eyed fixation on the profitable copy-selling line and who’d famously once thrown a coffee-cup at a photographer who’d brought in pictures too blurry to print. He’d never been a fan of the attitude that regarded celebrities with predatory avidity, as if a glimpse of Colby Kent clearly on the verge of panic in a fan-and-paparazzi-swarmed grocery store had been set up as a gift from the moneymaking gods, sent via direct express to gossip channels.

Sam liked to think he wouldn’t’ve taken that picture, if he’d been there. He liked to think he still had some morals. Some sense of decency. The look on Colby’s face—

That same damn moral sense kicked him in the back of the head and said: you think you wouldn’t’ve? With the money you could’ve gotten for that shot? The money that could’ve gone to Carlos’s last year of university tuition, Cynthea’s insulin, Thea and Diana’s college applications? You think you wouldn’t’ve clicked that shutter, sold that piece of your soul, for your family?

He knew. If he was being honest with himself, he knew. He’d known as much for years.

He’d been twenty-one years old for all of two weeks when his mother and stepfather had died in that car crash. When he’d fought like hell to get custody of his half-siblings, because someone had to, because there’d been no other family and no money, because there’d never been money, but he wasn’t about to let those kids end up anywhere that wasn’t family—

He’d always been good with a camera. Good at composition, angles, images that made people pause to look again. He’d won a few contests, local and statewide, with glimpses of Nevada cities and stones and sky and life, back alleys with tantalizing colorful artwork, a sunrise sprawl of suburban homes from a vantage point up on an old bridge. He’d been paying his way through college—a couple of scholarships, a few more loans, every odd job he could take, scraping and stretching but making it all work, knowing his mom and stepdad were proud, even if a bit worried about the fine arts degree instead of something more practical and less woven into his soul…

He’d dropped out of school. He’d found a job as night security for a rare book dealer’s shop, which had at least been a vaguely interesting place to work. They’d kept the house, but only barely; he’d been paying the mortgage out of what little savings his mom and Jack had had, watching accounts dwindle, getting Carlos ready for college and paying for tests and application fees, panicking over the twins turning thirteen and asking their oldest brother questions about sex and boys, making breakfasts and lunches and dinners and sometimes going over to the old local gym after hours just to punch a bag and scream…

He’d tried. He’d kept trying.

He’d known, three years in and dragging himself back to home and bed as the sky lightened, that they were sinking. He hadn’t known what to do. What else to try. What might be left to give.

He hadn’t been able to sleep. With all the kids out of the house during the day, he normally attempted to; he couldn’t, then.

He’d taken his phone and gone to the store, on autopilot, mechanical, thinking about cereal and Thea’s sugar levels—

In the parking lot he’d spotted motion outside the seedy motel across the street. A flicker of red hair and a woman’s laugh, a recognizable man’s face. Both actors. Both famous.

He’d looked away—their business, not his—and then he’d realized he was holding his phone, and he _was_ good with a camera, and people paid money for pictures like that, didn’t they—

They had. A lot. They’d asked whether he could get more.

Seven years after that, sitting in a historic movie theater in a squishy red plush chair, Sam bit a lip. Watched Leo Whyte get drenched by rain on a silver-screen ship, shouting orders to men, grabbing ropes and hauling sails around himself, all hands on deck and unhesitating, a second in command who men wanted to follow—

Leo Whyte came from a perfectly untroubled upper-middle-class English family, sometimes brought both beaming parents to film premieres, and had almost definitely never skipped a meal in that velvet-suit-wearing life. Leo no doubt believed the world was kind, and happy endings were real, and heroic historic lieutenants got rewarded with prize-money and adorable wives and invitations to visit viscounts in Italy.

Sam glanced at Leo’s head again. The whole audience was swept up in the film: alive and alert, rapt with tension. Leo had turned that head slightly, watching his co-stars watch the movie instead of looking at himself.

He thought, then, that it hadn’t been a fair thought, about Leo.

Leo Whyte might be flippant and ridiculous and privileged, but also knew about loneliness and loyalty and sacrifice. Maybe Leo’s version of the latter consisted of leaping in front of and distracting a paparazzi nuisance, but that did mean something. Not nothing.

And Sam had seen his eyes, his expression, when complimented.

When _genuinely_ complimented. When wanted, not for the humor or the willingness to lose dignity or the undeniable skill on camera, but as himself. Someone with the kind of soul that’d shred every last piece of itself to save someone else, laughing and joking all the way so that nobody suspected a thing.

Leo Whyte, he thought, was more complicated than most people guessed.

And Leo was too good for him, too clean and shining and untouchable; but Sam had gone to Jameson and sworn up and down and sideways to come back with pictures of Colby Kent and Jason Mirelli at their first-ever red carpet as a couple, pictures of Sir Laurence Taylor, pictures of Kate Fisher’s underpants if that was what Jameson wanted, anything, everything, if he could have an expense account and a trip to London and a way to be there for Leo’s premiere.

Jameson had said yes to all of the above. Expectations sat like lead on Sam’s shoulders. Like unclean lead: heavy and malevolent and dull. Leo Whyte wouldn’t approve of all that tarnish. Too ugly.

But that tarnish had let him be here. He’d been able to see Leo. He’d caught Leo looking at him, just once. He’d waved, though he wasn’t sure those wide hazel eyes’d noticed; someone’d come along to usher actors inside.

He hoped Leo had seen him. He thought that maybe it’d mean something: someone who’d come for Leo, just for him, not for Colby or Jason or Jillian Poe or Sir Laurence. Someone who’d self-evidently never get to kiss or touch or even stand near Leo Whyte again, but who wanted to do all of those things with his whole idiotic heart, which hadn’t got that memo.

He hoped it would matter somehow. Maybe only for a minute, a second, a heartbeat. But something. Some lifting of the weight that hid so well concealed behind those mischievous dryad eyes.

He should watch the film. He did _want_ to watch the film, but he wanted to have an opinion about it also, scenes to praise, details to mention, in case—

In case of what, he wondered, and nearly laughed aloud. In case Leo Whyte wants to talk to a random tabloid photographer again? In case he remembers you? Someone who stalked his friends on a street? Someone who kissed him once in a back alley in Las Vegas? When he could have anyone he wanted, guys, girls, both at once, partners from his world and his career, people who fit into his glittering life?

No. Not worth imagining. Daydreams didn’t come true.

But he was here, and the movie was good, and maybe Leo’d seen him and the sight had led to a smile. That was enough; that’d be enough.

Sam took a breath, let it go, and turned attention back to the love story on the screen. He wanted to talk about the history, the bravery, the courage in telling this version of history with men in love at the center of it; he wanted to talk about the detail, the embroidery in a costume jacket, the use of light and shadow and shots that tracked calligraphy and love-notes, emphasizing the role of writing, connection, communicating.

He did not have the sophisticated vocabulary that someone in the film industry would have. Someone who could talk to Leo Whyte about storytelling techniques without sounding ignorant and out of place.

He did love the film. That was real.

Along with everyone, he gasped and quivered with emotion and hovered at the edge of his seat; he hurt with Jason’s embodiment of Stephen’s fear when Colby-as-Will lay near death after that terrifying collapse. He felt tears scorch his eyes when Will heard his lover’s voice and woke.

He caught breath with physical pain when Stephen’s ship went down: a spear right through the gut. Will was so broken and so strong at that moment, vowing to carry on—

Sam, like everyone in the theater, cried unashamedly when Stephen reappeared, minus an arm and thinner and sunburned but alive and real. Colby, on the screen, flung himself into his lover’s embrace; Sam’s heart overflowed. These men, this story, both the characters and the actors. So full of optimism. So nakedly courageously in love.

He’d figured out his own orientation over a few years and some experimentation—high school, those first couple years of college, exploring attraction to guys and girls and on two memorable occasions both at once. It’d been guys more often than girls, more and more so over time; he’d said gay sometimes when asked because that was occasionally easier, and bisexual sometimes because that was arguably more accurate: he could be, and had been, happy to dive into bed with Tanya, who’d been in his art history study group and who’d had sculptor’s hands, as well as Scott, who’d been his first real boyfriend, an out-and-proud track star who’d posed, laughing, for Sam’s camera lens.

He’d been lucky. At least, in that sense.

His mother and stepfather had supported his coming out. He’d had friends in school. The world these days was—if far from perfect—a _little_ more accepting than the history playing out on the screen. And he’d never wanted to hide. He’d wanted to share his story. He’d thought, once upon a time, that he could help people: with art, with pictures, with loving the world.

He’d been young and naïve. He’d thought he could do anything. Before a late-night car crash, and a world bleeding out.

He’d been happy before that. He’d been happy when it’d been himself and his mother, them against the world, and he’d been happy when his stepfather’d joined them too. Their life wouldn’t’ve compared to, say, Leo’s; but they’d managed. His father’d been nonexistent, out of the picture before he’d been born, but Carmen Hernandez had a nearly-finished teaching credential and a lot of determination, and they’d been a tiny family together, and her eventual elementary-school position might’ve not been prestigious but it’d been enough.

And then she’d met Jack Blake, who taught eighth-grade English literature and did not know how to cook and had asked for help making photocopies with ink on his hands and a crooked bow tie. Sam’s future stepfather had come over for dinner and smiled at Carmen’s shy art-loving son and brought along an old camera, one that he said had belonged to his father; he hadn’t ever done anything with it, but maybe Sam would like it?

Sam had. He’d seen the way his mother smiled; he’d watched Jack smile back while accidentally putting an elbow in sauce and then getting utterly dismayed, and his mother’d laughed, and Sam had quietly got up to put his own dishes away and leave them alone, laughing with each other.

Lucky, he thought now, not without that old faded edge of hopeless bitterness; and sighed. Ten years later, the loss hurt less like an open gash and more like a once-broken bone: never quite set right, healed around the snap in his heart, knitted inexpertly together.

He loved his siblings desperately, ferociously, helplessly. He’d tried so hard. He’d given up the life he’d thought he’d have. He thought he’d done okay: Carlos was finishing up at college now, a real full ride to the university in Las Vegas—following in his father’s literature-loving footsteps, looking at graduate programs, which Sam would grit teeth and take photographs to pay for if necessary, bringing in those paychecks—and the twins were happy and healthy and thinking about college admissions essays, being checked on by their retired next-door neighbor Annika when Sam had to be gone, and they could call him any time, they knew that.

He did try to check in every day. At least once.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a real date. Not a quick hook-up while traveling for a job, not hurried hands or mouths in a cheap motel or neon-lit bar men’s room. Nothing that meant anything, other than casual mutual release and satisfaction.

Leo Whyte made him want more. Made him want to put arms around those well-muscled actor’s shoulders and take Leo home, not even necessarily for sex but to see if maybe that might make those layered hazel eyes feel secure, cared for, worth holding.

He’d gotten pretty good at macaroni and cheese. Spaghetti. Sandwiches. Soup. Inexpensive and easy and filling.

Leo Whyte probably lived on gourmet catering. Some sort of live-in chef. A personal nutrition consultant. Who no doubt wouldn’t approve of the picture Leo’d posted a while back with the massively oversized ice-cream sundae and the caption “Some days are just all about the sprinkles,” plus a heart.

For no real reason, recalling that post, Sam wanted to taste that ice cream, those expressive lips. Leo Whyte loved sprinkles and cherries. Felt right somehow. Fun and free.

The film finished on a happy ending: hope, and comfort, and a family that’d been found and brought together amid nodding color-drenched Mediterranean flowers and seas and skies. Colby and Jason, as Stephen and Will, waved from a terrace and ran down to a dock; Leo, as Richard, helped his on-screen wife out of the boat, here to join their friends. They were smiling, shading eyes against sun, waving back. In billowing shirts and with wide smiles. With joy.

The moment faded into credits, simple, profound.

Everyone sat stunned for a while: swept up, elevated, suffused by emotion. And then the applause began.

Thunderous. Cascading. Ringing off theater walls. Up on feet and hammering palms together.

Jillian Poe grabbed her actors and her loyal assistant director, and ran up on stage. They were all radiant with passion, with triumph. Jason Mirelli and Colby Kent were holding hands. Sir Laurence was gazing around with unconcealed pleasure. Leo gave the whole theater a grin and a half-bow: giddy, a performance, inviting the world to jump up and down and get buoyant with him.

Sam, at this distance, couldn’t see Leo’s expression well. But he wanted to. He wanted to know that Leo was honestly excited, elated, flushed with success.

Not lonely, under the flamboyance.

He amazed himself with how much he wanted that.

He took a breath, and took some notes: the cast’s answers about loving the novel, about adaptation, about characters. That’d be a story too: the news’d been out for a few months at this point, but this was a reminder. Colby Kent had played Hollywood script doctor for years without anyone learning this fact, and had secretly worked on some absolutely massive projects, several award-winning: from _Local News_ to _Darklight_ to _Princess_ , comedies and science fiction and even that Academy Award nominated animated feature. _Steadfast_ finally had his name on display as a writer. Taking credit. Being known.

Colby talked about the courage of happy endings, and the ability to believe in them. He smiled at Jason as he said it.

Leo might’ve been looking out at the crowd, during that answer. Might’ve been looking Sam’s way. Might’ve been.

Someone asked a two-part question, teasing and serious, about Jason getting into shape for this role: both the muscles and the emotions, particularly when they’d had to film Colby’s near-death scene. Jason laughed, joked about lifting a lot of heavy things, and then turned serious as well: admitting that it had been difficult, being newly in love with Colby, getting lost in both Stephen’s and his own protectiveness. He was truthful, big and earnest, open-hearted; a sigh rippled through the audience.

The last question involved what they’d all take away with them from this film, from the experience. Jillian and Andy talked about directing, bringing this story to life, the almost magical camaraderie; they both praised their cast and crew. Colby Kent, beautiful and articulate, answered that he’d learned about courage: about not being afraid to love, and to want that love, even if it hurt.

Jason said to him, “I love you.” More sighs and coos bounced off old-fashioned walls. Sam found himself smiling; the two of them were sappy and romantic and cheesy as hell, sure, but they were honest about their emotion. Not an act. Spontaneous and affectionate: they just _were_ that way, as a couple. In words, in touches, in glances and smiles.

Jason’s answer started with, “This film gave me you,” and everybody watching saw Colby Kent melt into a puddle of utter adoration. Jason went on to give one of the best answers Sam’d ever heard about storytelling and inspiration and the way that any movie, every movie, could matter to someone, whether a groundbreaking historical gay romance or an explosion-laced action blockbuster. Important, all of it. Worth loving. This film’d reminded him of that: loving what they did.

Colby ran over and flung arms around Jason and delivered a kiss. Everyone cheered, with a tinge of amazement: Colby Kent not only touching people but doing so without thinking, obviously wanting to, instinctive.

Colby sat back down, post-kissing. And then it was Leo’s turn to answer.

Sam realized he was sitting forward. Leaning into the anticipation. Trying to see Leo’s eyes, the way that expressive mouth shaped words, the tilt of that head.

He made himself lean back.

Then he leaned forward again anyway.

Leo, perched on a visibly uncomfortable wooden stool on stage, paused before answering, as if sorting out words. “Friendship, I’d say. What Jillian said. The people I’ve met, on this production…people who’re such good people. Who care. Who I’ll stay friends with, after.” He glanced down the line of co-stars, then out at the audience of critics and fans.

And Sam held his breath. Because he could’ve sworn that Leo was looking at him, finding him, in that second. No distance between them. None at all, for that instant.

“People,” Leo finished, “who I can be myself with. That’s so rare. And so important.” Unusually for Leo Whyte, his tone was quiet, reflective, personal.

Sam, listening, wanted to kiss him. To take his hand and soothe away every old wound, every time Leo hadn’t been himself, had covered up isolation with practical or verbal jokes. To say, _yes, please, be yourself with me, I want to know you, you’ll be safe…_

He couldn’t promise that. Not with the weight of his job around his neck. A chain, choking off the possibility of that kiss.

“And also,” Leo finished, tone flipping back to airy—to what everyone expected, Sam thought—and eyes all big and mock-innocent, “Colby makes the world’s best coffee cake. So I’m dropping by for brunch and taking some of that home with me tomorrow, thanks, Colby.”

“Tomorrow?” Colby echoed, playing along. “Well, yes, fine…but call or text before you come round.”

“Why?”

“Would you like me to explain it to you? When two people love each other very much…”

“Oh, god,” Leo interrupted, persona squarely in place, winsome English accent making every word funnier somehow, “just make sure you’ve put on clothing this time before you open the door.” The whole theatre cracked up. Merriment among the critics and the gold-leaf walls.

Because Leo did that. Leo made the world laugh. The right word, the right timing.

Leo Whyte was a better actor than anyone knew. The person who’d flinched away from being called good, who’d been so dismissive of his own generosity…

That person wasn’t on display. Luminous sparkles all intact. No cracks to be found. All sprinkles and whipped-cream toppings securely in place on that sundae.

Sam’s hands remembered the way Leo’d felt, melting into him, against him. Sam’s mouth recalled the sensation of Leo’s: not scared or inexperienced at kissing as such, but new to this with another man, and eager but almost shy, wanting more but so unused to being so wanted. A paradox: confetti exuberance atop shadows of self-dismissal. A mystery, a layered excavation, an exhilaration worth working for.

He did want more. He wanted more of Leo.

He couldn’t. He shouldn’t. Worlds apart. Whole galaxies. Universes. Expanding all the time.

“You think I’m joking,” Leo concluded, playing out the teasing to the end, “but you didn’t knock on their door that time in Italy!” and looked over to Sir Laurence: handing off the final answer.

Sir Laurence smiled at everyone. Began by, as expected, praising fellow cast, directors, the story. Then Colby and Jason in particular. Then talking about courage and sexuality, in that old-fashioned legend’s voice. Everyone listening nodded: good words, from a good ally, especially coming from a representative of an older knightly generation with a powerful voice.

At this point Sir Laurence calmly added, “I’d’ve loved to’ve had that. To have the chance, or the choice, for that freedom, if we’d wanted to. For instance, well, it was rather an open secret on set all those decades ago, but nevertheless I’d’ve never said outright that I was in love with Alec Flynn and he with me, much less admitted to anyone that we’d moved in together. But of course we were and we did. And it was wonderful.”

Sheer silence hit like lightning. Electric shock. The universe trying to take that in and comprehend it.

Sam grabbed his notebook. Journalist autopilot. That quote. Getting it down. Surely Sir Laurence Taylor hadn’t just said—

Someone, more daring than the rest, murmured a half-dazed question about Sir Laurence having been married to a woman, having married—and divorced—two women, in fact, and having a daughter. Sir Laurence agreed, helpfully, and mentioned having a granddaughter, now.

“But,” said the journalist. “Alec.”

“You see,” Sir Laurence said, serene and gentlemanly, “I’m quite bisexual, darling.”

And the room erupted into clamor. Questions. Shouting. Scribbling of notes, frantic texting, the news about to be heard round the world—

Leo, Sam noticed, was laughing. Applauding. Enjoying the tumult; appreciating Sir Laurence’s exquisite timing, no doubt. Leo _would_ appreciate a good show and showmanship, with that sense of humor, with that skill at purposefully diverting the world.

Sir Laurence went on to talk about having the words for himself and his desires, finally; about being able to express this part of himself, and his gratitude for the film and the experience of getting to know Colby and Jason and Jillian and Andy, people who loved who they loved openly, a choice he’d never even had available; he thanked them, and the world.

Sam took half-hysterical notes. Such a story. _The_ story.

The cynic in him approved of Sir Laurence’s timing and the publicity for the film. The newfound hollowness in his chest observed that the words all seemed truly sincere. His brain pointed out that the two weren’t mutually exclusive.

They’d been asked not to take photos or video during the film and the Q&A. Other people were nevertheless sneakily capturing this moment, more and less stealthily. Sam cringed at himself but caught a couple of phone snapshots, quick and unobtrusive: needing the reactions on stage, knowing how much he could make from even those one or two peeks into this piece of history.

He felt dirty doing it, as if he’d shattered a promise. He wasn’t the sort of person who ought to be here, witnessing this baring of self. The sort of person who might be given Leo Whyte’s kind heart to hold. Who might be trusted.

He wasn’t. He never would be. So he snuck pictures, having been requested not to.

He sent one of the photos, the best shot of Sir Laurence’s face while talking, to Jameson on the spot. The text he got in return indicated approval and a rare good mood.

The Q&A ran out of time; the cast waved, bowed, received another standing ovation. Leo’s suit stood out: sunrise color against traditional navy and black hues around him. Always extraordinary, Leo Whyte; Sam bit a lip, felt the bite against his breastbone. Leo was himself, through and through, and spectacular.

The cast and crew, framed by security—separated from ordinary mortals, distant and protected—headed toward the exit. Assembled critics and journalists and fans and lucky premiere-ticket winners, all left behind, shuffled feet, milled around, sagged a little after all the emotion, and made hasty calls and texts about the seismic shift that’d just taken place in terms of classic movie-star love lives.

More stories. Everywhere. Upending what everyone’d thought they knew, which had been another type of story, concealing a truth.

So many stories. So powerful.

The ones he told, through unwelcome intrusive lenses, did not compare to the works of love he’d seen tonight: in the film, and on stage. With Jason and Colby, and Sir Laurence’s coming out moment, and Jillian Poe’s love for her cast and crew, and the whole world standing up to believe in happy endings.

Sam Hernandez-Blake, who sold voyeuristic glimpses of private lives, shouldn’t be here. Not in the same room with all that love.

He did it for family. That was a truth. But in the moment—in this moment—the guilt mattered more. The shame. If he wasn’t who he was—

If Leo could ever look at him with those dancing hazel eyes and see someone worth kissing again—not a sordid furtive stolen moment—

Sam breathed out, carefully, around the stab-wound in his chest. And he put away his phone, and headed for the exit, thinking about expenses and getting a cab and the cheap hotel that’d been all Jameson and the _Daily World News_ would pay for, with the painful mattress-springs and the distressing grey stain on the wall.

He’d had this moment. These few hours. He’d _been_ here.

He’d go back and upload the rest of his pictures in better quality, and he’d even write up a short breathless article with lots of exclamation points because Jameson would pay for the description from someone who’d been there. He’d get it all sent in and he’d get paid.

He felt older suddenly. Exhausted. Thirty-one years old, going on a hundred.

His next footfall scuffed against deep red carpet, leaving the theatre, drifting out into the lobby. The carpet, which’d seen years of show-business anguish and ecstasy, gazed up in scarlet sympathy.

A hand touched his shoulder. He turned.

A young man dressed in the night’s event staff uniform gave him a smile. The young man was generally speaking attractive, slim and stylish with red hair and grey eyes and an understated rainbow earring and a gaze that absolutely traveled up and down Sam’s body, lingering over shoulders, hips, Sam’s mouth; he was also _very_ young, not necessarily in years but in the complete lack of subtlety. “Sam Hernandez-Blake?”

“Sure,” Sam agreed—no reason to be rude, even if he wasn’t interested—and shifted to one side, out of the flow of bodies milling around. “How can I help you?” And he thought, fleetingly, that he _should_ have been interested; he liked people who knew what they wanted, who’d keep things easy, who clearly were into him as well.

He pictured Leo Whyte’s eyes, green and brown as springtime forests: new to kissing a man but unafraid. Expressing every over-the-top emotion, but also hiding behind all the expression. Multifaceted. A puzzle.

Complicated. Not easy.

But he wanted to see those eyes again, to touch Leo again.

He’d never have that. He’d had tonight. He’d seen that Leo was well, looking happy, shining on a big screen.

The young man, now regarding him with some approval—had the blatant flirtatious once-over been some sort of test?—said, “He asked us to come and find you? I apologize for taking so long; he gave us a decent description, but this is quite a crowd?” and then lifted eyebrows at Sam expectantly, as if this ought to make sense.

“Um,” Sam tried, politely. “Who would that be?”

The young man seemed perplexed. “Er…Leo? Leo Whyte? Sorry, were you not expecting to see him? He seemed to think you would? He’s waiting just round the back, where you’ll get the limo?”

Leo. Leo Whyte. Wanting to see him. Sending obliging minions out to find him. Waiting for him. With a limousine.

Leo, who Sam’d kissed and walked away from in a Las Vegas night; who Sam had kissed because he couldn’t stand the thought of Leo feeling unwanted a single second longer, and had left because he wasn’t the right man for that, the kind of man Leo Whyte deserved—

Leo, who’d been so wonderful tonight. In the film, bringing Lieutenant Harper’s love and loyalty and battle-courage to life. And on stage, bringing laughter to the entire theatre, giving the world that gift.

Someone should say that. Should tell Leo that. How incredible he was. How much he mattered. Someone needed to put it into words for Leo to hear.

The sympathetic red plush under his feet suggested that that person should be Sam. That he should follow this path, walk right along it, until he found neatly styled dark blond hair and hazel eyes and tempting lips at the end.

He wasn’t going to kiss Leo again. For all he knew, Leo Whyte wanted to yell at him. For turning up here; for interfering; for coming within photographic distance of their tight-knit group of friends. That’d make some sort of sense, he figured.

But still: he’d get to see Leo. And a tiny butterfly spread wings and did a hop inside his chest, wanting to fly.

He squared shoulders under his rented suit-jacket, beneath opulent lights. “Show me where to go.”


	3. afterparty (of a sort)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Leo and Sam introduce Leo to sex with Sam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy. Leo and Sam definitely do. :D

The where in question turned out to be behind the theater: an alleyway currently being lurked in by a sleek black means of star-conveyance. Leo Whyte, jacket removed, stood there leaning on the open back door like a moment out of classic Hollywood: glamorous good looks, chiseled cheekbones, rolled up sleeves and studied casual pose.

Sam wanted to kiss him. Sam wanted to unbutton that springtime-pink shirt and find out how Leo looked, felt, tasted, all over. Sam wanted—

So much. More than he should. More than he deserved.

Leo smiled at him, obviously playing up the moment like a shot on a film set, and swept a dramatic hand at the limo. “My turn to abduct you, isn’t it?”

“It’s not a kidnapping if I’m willing.” A step closer. Two. More. Somewhere in those steps he’d made a decision. This night, like his previous night with Leo, was a mirage, an illusion, an enchantment out of one of those fantasy novels his sisters loved; he could have the dream because it wasn’t real. He could play along. Could pretend he belonged right here.

He touched Leo’s hand, where it dangled against a polished car door. The less polished real-life back wall of a theater watched over them. The night was cool and crisp, and the ground was hard under his feet. “You were wonderful. Your movie.”

“Of course I was,” Leo said lightly, though his fingers brushed Sam’s and curled around and held on briefly. “I did think I’d seen you in the crowd before we all went in. I hoped I had.”

Straight to the point, unflinching; that was Leo Whyte, Sam thought. And the thought made him smile: Leo would say exactly what was on his mind, no disguise or deception, and would take the world’s reaction for what it was, whether that meant amusement or dismissal or appreciation.

He got into the limo. He had not, in fact, ever been in a limousine before, and said so. Might as well. Honesty for honesty, in this magic spell.

Leo raised eyebrows at him. A bottle of champagne appeared from nowhere, as did two glasses. “Then we’re celebrating. So many firsts. Yours and mine. If you’d like to ride around for a bit I can have the driver take us anywhere. By which I mean anywhere in London. Under the sea might be a bit more complicated.”

Sam laughed. Bubbles slid over his tongue, into his chest, into his heart.

“We’re going to my place,” Leo said, watching him. “If that’s all right.”

“Your place?”

“Unless you’d rather not?”

“No, I meant…of course you live here. London.” You want me at your place, he did not say. You trust me to see where you live, to come home with you.

He downed another gulp of champagne. Noticed that the sleeves of his rented suit were far too large.

Leo’s suit fit beautifully. Tailored for him, of course.

Leo hadn’t expressed astonishment about Sam never having ridden in a limousine. Hadn’t made a joke about that. Had talked about this being a first for them both.

“Of course I live here,” Leo said. “It’s where we grow half the British acting talent. Sometimes they let us escape to Los Angeles or Vancouver if we’re well behaved. More seriously, though, I like living here. I’m only about ten minutes’ walk from my parents, which sounds dreadful but honestly is marvelous, because my parents are also marvelous. Which is where I get it, naturally. You did say you liked _Steadfast_?”

“I did.” Sam set down the champagne. Reached out and found Leo’s hands, both of them. Natural. Simple. As if his hands had been made for this. “So much. The detail, the scenery—Will’s library, I mean, wow—and the emotion. Like I was right there feeling everything with them. The whole story.” Leo’s fingers were long and graceful, and wove into Sam’s in fascinating ways.

“Yes.” Leo looked at their fingers too. “Colby and Jason are so very good, and Jill’s one of the most intuitive directors I’ve ever worked with, and then Colby’s script is brilliant, as well. I imagine there’ll be some awards on the horizon.”

“They’re good,” Sam said, “but they have everyone behind them, too. That world-building. Every character—I cared about Lord Cary, and about Percival Crawford, even if he is awful to Will, and about you. Richard. I honestly thought you might die in that storm sequence—and when the ship went down—and I hated thinking that, because you were so important, you’re Stephen’s friend and right hand, and you needed a happy ending too, and I think I said thank god, out loud, when you were alive at the end.”

This sentence came out rambling, disjointed, inelegant; but he meant every word. Leo began smiling even more, at the first part, and did not stop.

“It’s an important movie,” Sam said, and probably he was saying too much now, words erupting messily all over the place, but he wanted to see that smile keep happening. “Seeing our stories—our history—up on a big screen, with a happy ending…that matters so much. And you got to bring it to life.”

Leo’s pleasure danced in those hazel eyes, fireflies among forest groves. And he leaned forward and in and his lips found Sam’s in a kiss.

Leo Whyte really didn’t hold back, Sam managed to think dazedly; but then he was kissing Leo and discovering a clumsy near-lapful of Leo, bodies pressed together in the back seat of the limousine, heated and firm and ecstatic. That became Sam’s whole world: the eager explorations of Leo’s mouth meeting his, Leo’s tongue teasing his, Leo’s body—and, god, that body, lean and flexible and enthusiastic—under his hands, against him, all motion and excitement.

He touched Leo everywhere, the way he’d wanted to: hands learning the planes of that gym-honed back under a shirt that skimmed fingers like silk—he’d bet it was—and then venturing lower, to the tempting perky curve of Leo’s ass, which beckoned further playing. Leo’s eyes went even wider, mid-kiss, but he only paused long enough to grin and then nip deliberately at Sam’s lower lip.

“Oh really,” Sam murmured, entertained, and ran a hand along Leo’s thigh: learning how Leo squirmed and arched into the touch. “You like me touching you.”

Leo paused again to sparkle at him. “I’m beginning to suspect I do, yes.” His hair stood up, ruffled out of the red-carpet smooth wave. Sam’s fingers had done that. Sam’s mouth had left that mobile English one all pink and newly kissed.

“I want you to come home with me,” Leo said. “To celebrate my premiere. To be here. With me.”

“I want to.” He had a hand on Leo’s hip, over expensive suit-fabric. He was rubbing a thumb over that spot, the suit and the taut muscle beneath. He couldn’t help it. “But I just…I mean, are you sure?” He managed a steadying breath, and clarified, “You could be…should you be appearing at…afterparties, parties with friends, anything you want…anyone…publicity…”

“I want to be here.” Leo put out a hand and touched Sam’s chest, curious; Sam’s chest ached sweetly in that spot. “I know I’ve never done this, but I do like you touching me and I—I like the way I feel. With you. Unless you’re planning to kiss me and call me a cab and run away again.”

“I did not,” Sam said, ruffled, “run away—I was giving you space, a choice, something better than—”

“I’ve decided I’d quite like to try out this sex with a man concept,” Leo said, “and I want to try it with you.”

Sam, silenced by this, couldn’t reply.

He could put hands in Leo’s hair and tug them into another kiss, so he did. The kiss became soft and incredulous, because he couldn’t believe it. All that courage. That fearlessness. That faith in him. In _him_. Sam.

He shook his head in minor disbelief, laughing; and stroked a fingertip over Leo’s cheek because he could.

Leo, whose cheek was presently discovering how much it liked being caressed by Sam’s fingers, attempted to ask, “Was that a no?” His voice emerged breathy and low, laced with audible desire; he was fairly certain that Sam was on board with the plan, given all the touches and the evident bulge in that not-quite-fitted suit, but then that had been a headshake, so he thought he ought to make certain. “You _are_ free to say no, I realize I’ve rather sprung this on you and you only just came to see a movie and take some red-carpet photographs—you did get some, didn’t you? I can pose here in the limo for a few more moderately scandalous ones if they’d be of use.”

“Leo.” Sam put both hands on his face this time: cupping Leo’s cheeks, stilling him, steadying him. Rather mortifyingly, this sensation—being held and soothed by Sam—went straight to Leo’s cock, which grew if possible even stiffer, trapped by his suit and quiveringly sensitive.

“Leo,” Sam said again. In that voice Leo’s name became chocolate, rich and molten, swirled long and lazy over tongues. “I love your movie, and, yeah, I did take some pictures. But that’s not really why I’m here. I’m here for you.”

“Because I practically dared you to come to—”

“Because I want to be here. Because it’s important to you—because you’re important.” Sam searched his eyes, and must’ve seen the crack at the core of Leo’s heart, because the words got repeated, slow and firm: “You’re important, Leo Whyte. I’ll tell you again if you want. You matter. In your movie. And here. With me.”

“Of course I’m important,” Leo announced. Bridges over chasms. Wavering and laced with ribbons to hide the missing boards along the way. “I’m a gift to the world. And to kittens everywhere. So that’s not a no about the sex, then?”

“I remember you organizing that kitten adoption.” Sam ran a hand over Leo’s head: petting, perhaps reminded by the kittens. Leo’s head liked this as well. “It’s a hell yes about the sex. But only if you want to. If you’re ready. You don’t have to.”

“Ah. I know?”

“Then…if you really are sure…” The grin lit up all the little treasure-bits in Sam’s layered brown gaze. “Then I’m honored. That you’d pick me. For your first, what was it you said, trying out the sex with a man concept? Now I’m wondering what a man concept is, by the way.”

“The concept of a man? Probably shaped quite a lot like you.” He poked Sam’s chest again, interested. The limo made a turn; not too far now, Leo estimated. Home. And his bed. And Sam in it. He’d made up his mind about that, and he wanted it. He had not thought much beyond that—what this meant as far as being definitely not straight, or the implications of bringing a journalist home—but he was used to not overthinking; he was himself, and he wanted things, and he wanted this. “You’ll have to give me a few pointers, but I take direction well and I’m not easily offended by corrections.”

Sam began laughing again.

“Well, I’m not,” Leo pointed out. “Though I am offended by blueberries. They know what they did.”

“Not being actually blue?”

“Exactly. Purple-hued liars.” Sam hadn’t given him a quizzical look or said _I have no idea what goes on inside your head_ or leapt bodily out of the limo. Leo’s heart, unused to this, did a little cartwheel inside his chest. “I’m also allergic to kiwi fruit. Just for the record.”

“Well, damn,” Sam said. “There go my sex plans for you.”

More cartwheels. Somersaults. Acrobatics all over the place. “I’m certain you can improvise. I think I’ve got bananas.”

Sam looked pointedly at Leo’s trousers. “At least one.”

“Oh my god,” Leo said, “that’s a me joke. I mean it’s something I’d’ve said. I mean you’re perfect and I—” Shocked, he hauled back the words. I love you? On a second meeting, in a limo, in the middle of a discussion about sex and fruit allergies? No. Dear god, no.

But the words, having enjoyed themselves on the tip of his tongue, refused to go away. They hung out in his head and orbited around the periphery, fizzing like the London night.

“I figured you’d appreciate it,” Sam said, not pushing for the unspoken words. “Both the joke and the banana. Are we here?” They were. The limo had stopped. The partition went down. The driver—a cheerful curly-haired woman with dangling star-shaped earrings that Leo rather wanted to play with—turned around and said, “Here you go, Mr Whyte! Have fun!”

“Thank you,” Leo told her, still a bit dazed by his own emotions. Sam, as they emerged, stuck an arm back into the limo and retrieved Leo’s jacket, which both Leo and the jacket were grateful for; and then stopped, looking up at the house. “Nice.”

“It is.” Leo found keys, unlocked the barricade of front gate, held out a hand: wanting Sam to come in, wanting Sam to touch him more places. The house stood up in front of them and beamed in Victorian brickwork and white trim, old bones full of energy. It wasn’t large, but it was his, and he liked the neighborhood: fashionable enough that he had some fellow actors and football players as neighbors, not quite cutting-edge enough for trendy clamorous nightclubs or thumping music, close enough to his parents that he could pop by for tea or advice. “And now you’ve seen it.”

“And now I’ve seen it.” Sam trailed him up steps, through the door, into the small hallway, and out into the openness of the kitchen and entertainment space. “You trust me with this. Where you live.”

“To be fair, it’s not difficult to find out. The first time we organized that big global scavenger hunt with fans, for charity, I accidentally included part of my address in the announcement video.” Leo took a step into the kitchen and considered a teakettle, a bottle of scotch, the refrigerator. None of these seemed to know proper etiquette for seducing a man, either. “Would you like anything? A drink, a sandwich—we _are_ missing the afterparty—some sort of, er, jalapeño jam?”

“Really?” Sam turned. Framed by Leo’s sitting room, with the deep blue accent wall and color-changing sequin-covered throw pillows, he might’ve looked out of place—a rumpled American in a too-large suit—but instead set Leo’s jacket on a chair with a lot of care and instantly belonged. “Whatever you want, I said. Though maybe not the jam.”

“Right, yes…”

“Are you nervous about this?” Sam’s hand, reaching over the bar to cradle Leo’s, felt warm and firm again, the way Sam’s touch always seemed to. “We don’t have to. You don’t have to.”

“No,” Leo said, stubborn and certain. “I want to. I’ve only never done this before.”

“Neither have I, so we’re even?”

“Of course you have, and you’re not shy about it, you even asked me out—”

“I’ve picked up guys before.” Sam’s thumb made small circles around the inside of Leo’s wrist; Leo, entranced, felt his heartbeat calm. “I’ve gone home with guys before. But not like this. Not with you. Is that a couch pillow shaped like a fish? Covered in sequins?”

“I bought it because I like it,” Leo said. The way he tended to think: instinctive, impulsive, leaping in. Maybe Sam didn’t like that. Maybe Sam didn’t like whimsy. Or fish. Or sequins. “Of course you’ve never come home with me. I think I’d remember. Plus, gay sex virgin, you do recall. Though ideally not for much longer, assuming you’ve still got plans for me.”

“So many plans. I like your pillows. And that wall color. You didn’t hire a designer, did you? It’s all you.”

True, but how’d Sam guessed? “True. How did you—”

“It feels like you. And you’re good at colors. It’s bright, yeah, especially the couch, but they all go together.”

Sam was looking at him with complete seriousness, gravely complimenting Leo’s rust-orange sofa and piscine design choices, holding his hand; Leo flung himself around the corner of the bar and threw arms around Sam and tackled Sam’s mouth with his. Into the kiss, demanded, “Show me all your gay sex plans for me. Now.”

Sam was laughing, holding onto him, kissing back: tongue teasing Leo’s mouth, hands roaming all along Leo’s body. Leo’s whole body thrilled to the exploration. “So liking your couch is a turn-on, huh? I like the chair, too, with the stripes.”

“We could have sex in it,” Leo encouraged. Arousal built and pooled in his stomach, in the weight of his cock and balls, which liked that idea.

“I’m not going to make your first time involve your chair!” Sam nuzzled a kiss into the spot below Leo’s jaw; the scrape of stubble plus the tenderness made Leo’s knees nearly fold. He’d kissed people and been kissed before; this was different. This was Sam, undeniably masculine and strong and experienced; part of Leo’s brain was astonished at himself and how right this felt, and the rest was jumping up and down and shouting that it _did_ feel right, Sam felt right, and more of all that rightness would be excellent in the very near future, please.

Sam’s hands were untucking his shirt, sneaking under, finding bare skin. Leo might’ve whimpered.

Sam pulled him closer, hips rocking into his. This time Leo gasped because the friction was glorious, their bodies and desires colliding and grinding against each other. Sam trailed fiery kisses along his throat, and inquired, “Where’s your bedroom? And…you’ve got supplies, right?”

“Supplies…oh, yes. I _have_ had sex before. With other people. With myself. With toys.”

“Might need to show me some of those, later.” Sam ran a hand over Leo’s hip, flirting with the waist of his trousers, then sliding between them. And gliding, torturously slow, over the line of Leo’s cock. “You like me touching you like this?”

Leo made a sound he’d not known he could make, inarticulate and pleading. His cock pulsed; the tip grew wet, he could feel it, and he knew he’d be getting it all over his suit, messy smears of desire staining expensive fabric, under Sam’s hand. The thought made him arch hips into the caress, helplessly; he did not know why the idea felt so good, making a mess of himself as Sam teased him, but he craved more.

Sam stroked him again, then lifted the hand. Leo wobbled in place.

“Bedroom?”

“Oh…yes…right…” Stairs. His house had them. He and Sam tumbled up them in a tangle of bodies and hands and heat. The door swung partially open; Leo’s foot hit it, which might’ve hurt but didn’t because Sam was kissing him and unbuttoning his shirt and baring his skin, and Leo was touching too, hands wandering over Sam’s arms and chest and hips because he couldn’t not, fascinated and needing and wanting it all.

Sam backed him up toward the bed. Peeled away Leo’s shirt. “God. Look at you.”

“Thank you? I’m not Jason, but I— _oh_ —I like to think I do all right.” He did go to the gym regularly, plus the random hobby of the year, which’d ranged from fencing to waltzing to snorkeling in exotic places. He’d never have the type of body that grew muscle like tree limbs, and he had the sort of paleness that resolutely refused to tan, but he had decent abs and lean strength he was generally proud of. Sam, on the other hand, had broader shoulders, wider all round, built like oak and sailing-ships and those treasure-chests of gold, meant to last.

Sam had also found Leo’s left nipple with a hand, and was playing, gently: rolling, pinching, tugging. A bedside lamp—he’d left the one on the right turned on accidentally, heading to the premiere—spilled amber sun over white floorboards, crimson rug, exposed bodies. “You’re perfect. These’re perfect. Tell me if you like this. Not every guy does, but some people get real into it. How’s this feel?”

“Nice but not terribly more than—oh dear _god_.” Sam had done…something…with quite a bit more force, and Leo’s entire body suddenly got very confused indeed, hot and throbbing and aflame. Pleasure and a hint of pain streaked outward from his chest. His hands were clutching Sam’s shoulders.

“Ah,” Sam said, with some satisfaction. “Good sound?”

“Do that again!”

“You like things a little bit rough, then?” Sam did it again, a twist and tug of glittering sharpness. “Good to know.”

“I…I…how did you learn how to do that? I mean, I’ve had people want to touch them before but…” He tried to look down at his own chest. At the reddened pebble of need where Sam’s fingers remained, casually toying with him. The sight became overwhelming; he shut eyes, bit a lip. His cock dripped more slickness all over his pants, all over himself. “Please.”

“Please what?” Sam took the hand away. Lifted Leo’s chin. “You want more, or you want to stop?” His own arousal jutted out, tenting trousers, clearly on the side of the former.

“More,” Leo murmured, not backing down. “Show me.”

“Did I say perfect? You are.” Sam swooped in for a kiss. Happiness bubbled up and overflowed, down Leo’s spine, into his toes; he had to laugh, amazed.

Sex with Sam. Sheer fun, along with the scorching heat. Who could’ve guessed?

He put a hand on Sam’s belt, and tugged until it came unfastened. The sprawl of his bed, at his back, cheered him on in low dark wood and a heap of indigo duvet-fluff.

“Yeah.” Sam’s voice was ragged; Leo had done that. “Yeah, go on—”

Leo did. Sam’s suit fell in a clumsy heap to the rug; he’d dealt with his shirt as well, and he stood there in simple black boxer shorts, all tanned skin and power and just a hint of chest hair, a light dusting. Leo wanted to put fingers into it, and did; Sam tensed all over.

“Is that all right?”

“More than. Might be over pretty quick, if you keep wanting to try things.” Sam’s grin was crooked, ecstatic, intimate: for Leo, and Leo alone. “The way you touch me, the way you look at me…”

“Like I want you.”

“Like the best thing I’ve ever seen. Leo Whyte.” Sam’s eyes shone the way Leo thought his own heart must be. “Wanting to try this with me. I can’t even—god. How’d you even say yes to me?”

“You came to my premiere. You made a joke about bananas.” He hooked a finger into the waist of Sam’s shorts. “You wore a dreadful suit and kissed me in our limo.”

“It _is_ a dreadful suit,” Sam said, “and this is the best night of my life.”

Leo looked up. The flip comment died on his lips; Sam’s gaze held only truth, sweet as rain on a forest floor.

The moment extended, woven in discarded suit-folds and laced with honesty.

Leo, because he was himself, said, “I’d quite like to take these off now,” and tugged at Sam’s boxers. “May I?”

“You’re asking? Yeah, of course, go on.” Sam seemed as if about to say something else, but stopped and shook his head. “This is about you. What you want.”

“I want to know,” Leo told him, “everything,” and pulled fabric away, and couldn’t not look.

Sam’s cock was large and thick and curved, with a fatter head than Leo’s own; it was flushed with want, wet-tipped, deeply colored and pushing up. Leo had not thought much about the reality of finding another man’s anatomy attractive, but suddenly he was aware of how very imminent it was. Right there. As it were.

He realized how much he wanted to touch it, to find out the heft and firmness and fit of it in his hand.

He quite possibly even wanted to taste it. To know how it would fit there as well, in his mouth.

He spared a second for some more amazement at himself.

Then again, he’d always quite liked oral sex with women, both giving and receiving; he was good with his tongue, or so he’d heard, and he loved watching and tasting and listening to a partner fall apart with pleasure. And he knew what he liked, as far as his own cock. So this wouldn’t be much different. In theory.

He put out a hand. Wrapped fingers around Sam’s shaft. Sam groaned.

The length of it felt splendid: hard but velvety, a little wet from all the leaking, hot in Leo’s hand.

He tested a stroke, a pump of his hand up and down. Sam groaned again.

“Good?” Leo inquired, hoping so.

“So much yes. You’re not scared of anything, are you?” Sam dropped a hand atop Leo’s, guiding, adjusting tightness; the next stroke pushed his cock into their combined grip. “Should’ve guessed…you’d jump right in…”

“I like jumping in. How does one know whether one likes something, without trying?” Speaking of trying, he had a thought; he rubbed a thumbtip over Sam’s dripping slit, gathered wetness, lifted his hand. Licked his thumb.

He’d tasted himself once, out of curiosity. This tasted a lot like that, male and musky and maybe a bit sour but in an interesting way, warm and tempting on his tongue. He thought he might like to try it more.

Sam actually swore out loud. More visible need gathered shiny and slick over the head of his cock. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” Leo informed him, and knelt, carefully, shirtless and with undone trousers, on the rug at Sam’s feet.

Looking up, he found Sam looking down; Sam’s hand stroked his hair, rested on his head, and Leo got a bit dizzy, except it wasn’t like being dizzy; it was clarity, lightness, brilliance. He needed to be right here. Kneeling for Sam.

His own cock bobbed, stiff and straining. But that felt good as well; he did not need to touch it, not yet. He wanted to make Sam happy; he wanted to learn how it felt to take a man’s cock into his mouth, his throat.

He leaned forward and kissed the tip of Sam’s arousal, feeling the blunt hot weight of it.

Sam said that same word again, shaky, and his fingers tightened in Leo’s hair. “Oh, fuck—god, Leo, you’re so—do that again, with your tongue, just like that—”

Leo did it again, an obliging lick or two. He definitely liked the taste, he decided.

He had a decent idea about what to try, hypothetically speaking; he slid forward, taking more of Sam into his mouth. That felt even better, filling him up, pressing over his tongue.

Sam shuddered all over, and more of that delicious taste landed in Leo’s mouth; Leo, thus encouraged, attempted more, and deeper.

Deeper might be a problem. He choked, coughed, sat back. Took a breath. Wanted to try again. His lips were wet and sticky, and so was his chin.

“Fuck,” Sam whispered, sounding as thoroughly consumed by this as Leo himself felt. “Jesus. Leo—”

“I can try again.” Was that his voice? Rough and used, full of the presence of a man’s cock? “I can do more. I want to.”

“You—oh, fuck. Oh god. Okay. A little…not too much, don’t push…here, just relax, let me…” Sam’s hand guided his head. Up and down, a rhythm. Keeping him from plunging too deep, but setting a steady pace. In and out, fucking Leo’s mouth.

Leo, on both knees with Sam’s hand on his head, felt the knowledge of the moment not like a realization but like a resurfacing, a piece of himself he’d always carried but never known. He liked sucking Sam’s cock. He liked the sensation of his mouth being filled up with it. He wanted to do this more.

His body sang with lightness, with need. He moved a hand, rubbed at his cock through fabric: aimless, not trying for release, but needing to feel something, anything, right where he ached for it.

Sam thrust hard, as if unable to hold back; Leo gagged, choked, trembled in place. His eyes prickled. Sam pulled back abruptly; the hand cupping Leo’s face was an apology. “Sorry. You’re so fucking good, I forgot…you okay?”

Leo nodded. He wasn’t certain he could talk.

“No,” Sam said firmly, “no, come on, you gotta talk to me, okay? I’m not doing anything you don’t say you’re okay with, out loud.”

“I’m fine.” His voice emerged oddly small, not out of any reluctance, simply coming out hushed as the lamplight over the room. “I…I want…I like that. I do like that. This whole…sex with men concept. So far.”

Sam regarded him for a minute, then got hands under Leo’s arms and lifted him back to his feet. “Okay. But I think it’s my turn. Taking care of you.”

“Do you…” He did know the terms; he could use them. “Top? Bottom? Both?”

“I switch. Versatile. Depends on the person, on the mood.” Sam’s hands tenderly and efficiently whisked the rest of Leo’s suit, plus Leo’s clinging briefs, down, while somehow simultaneously shoving bedding out of the way. “Oh, look at you. You did like that, didn’t you? My cock in your pretty mouth?” One fingertip traced Leo’s lower lip; Leo, brimming over with need, closed lips around the finger and sucked.

Sam laughed. And eased him back into the bed. “Tell me where your stuff is.”

“First drawer under the bed…I like your cock in my mouth, yes.”

“Then we’ll do that one again. Later.” Sam popped back up, supplies in hand. “You buy good stuff. And a lot of it.”

“No reason not to,” Leo pointed out, mildly offended by the implication that he wouldn’t be as hedonistic as possible. “I assume you found all the varieties of lube.”

“Yep, and a couple of your toys. That’s not everything, is it?”

“Ah…possibly?” He tried to recall what’d been in that drawer, versus the one beside it. He didn’t think of himself as particularly kinky—certainly not in comparison to some; he had suspicions about what Jason and Colby got up to, especially after witnessing Jason feeding a suspiciously quiet Colby by hand—but he liked doing what partners enjoyed, and he’d historically been up for purchasing requested items. The drawers held a dildo or two, some scarves, some flimsy play handcuffs, a blindfold, a feather. “You can look around. If that’s not enough.”

Sam sat down beside him. Set a hand on Leo’s stomach: not anyplace more immediately erotic, more soothing than tantalizing. Leo’s cock, which had not understood the distinction, twitched and dribbled a bit of want, untouched.

“You mean that.” Sam tapped fingertips over him, and Leo lay still and gloried in it. “You’d let me open all your drawers, go through your house…if I wanted something, you’d do whatever you could to make it happen. No matter what it cost you.”

“I’m an open book,” Leo said. “I’m not complicated.”

“Yeah, you know, I’m kinda thinking you’re wrong about that.” Sam bent and kissed his stomach. Leo, startled, couldn’t think of anything to say; his eyes felt strangely heated, as if something had sparked tears, but that couldn’t be the case.

Sam swung legs up and stretched out beside him, partly atop him, so that they were touching lots of places. Sam’s weight felt nice, solid and anchoring; Sam’s leg hair was lightly scratchy, and Sam’s cock nudged Leo’s hip, and this was and wasn’t like lying in bed with a woman, and Leo liked it all.

Sam, nose to nose with him, added, “I think you might seriously be the best person I know,” and Leo shook his head, throat tight and body bizarrely turned on and thrumming with the words.

“I want you,” Sam said. “I want this to be good for you. So good. You deserve that, Leo. So just…don’t move, stay right there, looking at me—yeah, like that, that exact face—and let me just—”

He wriggled lower. And practiced wet heat enveloped Leo’s cock; Sam’s mouth, skilled and focused and all-encompassing, took Leo’s whole length and made starbursts flare across the room.

Leo gasped Sam’s name, inadvertent, drowning in starlight. His hips jerked up; he could’ve no more stopped them moving than he could’ve ceased breathing. He tangled hands in his sheets, head falling back.

Sam took him and took him apart and brought him to the brink, over and over; Leo moaned and sobbed and proceeded to lose any semblance of self-control he’d ever had, pleading for more, for Sam to never stop, to let him come, please, dear god, please, more.

Sam paused to smirk at him. Leo had had sex before, and good sex; this was lightyears beyond that. Incandescent.

He lay limp and panting, while Sam obviously enjoyed the sight of him spread out and debauched.

“Got an idea,” Sam said, “stop me if you don’t like this,” and got back between Leo’s legs, which parted further instantly. Sam’s mouth and tongue came back, only lower—lapping at his balls, decadent and filthy, and Leo gasped and made all sorts of noises and swore that he was going to come, he had to, he needed—

Sam’s tongue flicked lower. Behind his balls. Over sensitive skin. One hand coaxed Leo’s leg up and out of the way.

“Oh god,” Leo said, “oh my _god_ —” and then Sam was licking him _there_ , right over his hole, and Leo had never even imagined but it felt so good, so wrong and dirty but so hot and wet and _good_ —

He might’ve screamed. Or wailed. Or some other utterly uncontrollable noise. He was absolutely coming, shaking into pieces, flying and falling and spilling release all over himself, sobbing with drawn-out euphoria, feeling the jets of his own climax spurt across his stomach and chest.

Sam lifted that head, dark hair standing up and fluffy, eyes all golden and self-satisfied. “ _Definitely_ a good sound.”

Leo whimpered a bit.

Sam kissed his inner thigh. “Leo Whyte. My Leo, tonight. God, if you could see the way you look…just feeling everything, letting me see everything, how good you’re feeling…fucking gorgeous.”

“I can’t think,” Leo said pathetically. “You’ve broken my brain.”

“And we’re not even done yet.” Sam scooted up. “Stay put.”

“I couldn’t move if I wanted to.” Melted. Liquid. Ice cream in sun. “How’re you going to top that? Or, in this case, me?”

Sam laughed more. It made his eyes even more radiant, sunnily happy. Leo liked that. “Got plans for you. And, yeah, me on top. Unless you want it the other way. Um…I do want to kiss you. Got mouthwash? Y’know, since I just—and some people don’t like—”

Leo flopped a hand weakly toward his bathroom. “Anything you’d like. Is that a sort of gay sex politeness?”

“Not necessarily, but I’m not gonna horrify you too much.” Sam went, and came back. He’d also brought towels. Leo, busy being a puddle of ice cream, lay in place appreciating the view.

“God, you look good,” Sam said aloud, accidental telepathic mirroring, and Leo let out a breath that wanted to be a laugh but was tired.

“Something funny?” Sam sat back down. His hand skimmed over Leo’s body again, shoulder to hip; Leo wondered whether Sam simply liked touching, an anchor on that side as well. His words carried a scent of mint, cool and refreshing. “You do look good like this. And all the time. But right now, all naked and messy because I just got you off, and you loved it, and you look like everything I’m gonna dream about forever…”

“Ah,” Leo observed, “you like me well-fucked and in bed with you,” and batted eyelashes. Dramatically. Regaining energy.

Sam muttered something that sounded like, “Fucking _perfect_ ,” and kissed him. Hard. Fierce. So deep Leo felt it everyplace inside, resonating. Head to toe.

Even his spent cock stirred, taking an interest. Even more so when Sam began to fondle it, to tempt and caress and summon hardness back. Leo breathed out, softly—he’d meant to say words—and ended up simply watching.

Sam’s hands—broad masculine hands—on his vulnerable half-hard length. The contrast. The tenderness. The devastating sensitivity. He blinked rapidly; he wanted more, he wanted Sam to never stop touching him, he wanted to come again with those hands on him, with Sam inside him, above him, all around him.

“So sweet when you’re getting attention.” Sam trailed a finger over his tip, over the slit; sensation flared and rolled upward, a coruscating wave of too much and not enough. “You need that, don’t you? Someone making you feel good, thinking about you, paying attention to you…and I get to. Because you jumped in front of my camera.” His voice was quiet, almost wondering. “Because I was lucky enough to be the guy who was there. Me and my fucking job. You know what I do. And you said yes. To me asking you out. How’d that even work?”

“I like you,” Leo said hazily. “You. Not your job. Sam. Are you planning to fuck me soon? Only I might actually come from you doing this, right now, with your hand, so if you’ve got plans, we should get on with that.”

“Oh,” Sam said, “you’re the bossy sort of bottom, okay, got it,” and kissed him. The kiss came with a bottle-snap: lube, Leo’s rainbow-filled head understood. “You know we’ve already had awesome sex. It doesn’t have to mean penetration. Not that I don’t want to be inside you—the only guy ever, which, wow—but I’m checking in one more time. You want to try?”

“How many times would you like me to say so? Yes, thoroughly. Soon if possible.”

“Brat. Behave. Guessing you’ve at least maybe tried some things? With the toys?”

“Mmm. Yes. I had a girlfriend once who liked to put the smaller one inside me—it vibrates—while she, er, you know, got on top of me. I’ve never tried anything terribly large.”

They both paused to eye Sam’s cock. Sam’s cock sat up and happily redefined the word _large_ in its favor.

“Well,” Leo said eventually, “I do quite enjoy lots of attention, and that’s certainly…a lot?”

Sam snorted. “Thanks. Here, though, starting slow…” His fingers brushed Leo’s hole, not shy about it. The lube made everything slippery and welcome; Leo’s hole, still slightly wet from Sam’s earlier ministrations with that talented mouth, fluttered and clenched eagerly.

“Shh,” Sam soothed gently, and moved a finger. The first intrusion came easy; Leo’s body knew the feeling of opening up, though never with a man, and he knew about bearing down and pushing back and relaxing. Sam’s finger slipped into him, penetrating him, and he gloried in the rush of it.

Sam was cautious with him, to the point at which, two long fingers buried deep in his body, Leo demanded, “More, please, can we get on with this?” and earned himself a light swat on the thigh from Sam’s other hand plus a calm, “I’m not going to hurt you, so no.”

“I’ve had toys up there—”

“And you’ve never had anything bigger than that little one, and we’re getting you ready.” Sam adjusted fingers, curled, moved them differently. White-hot supernovas burst abruptly behind Leo’s eyes; gasping, he quivered on Sam’s hand, hanging between crystalline drops.

Sam stopped doing the marvelous thing. “Have you…never…found your…”

“I mean…I thought…I’ve felt good…but this is…it’s different when you do it!”

“I hope so. For one thing, I know what I’m doing. And I like doing it to you.” Sam did the thing again. Leo let out an honest-to-god shriek and rocked hips frantically, chasing that sensation. Sam, under his breath, added something mildly uncomplimentary about Leo’s previous partners and none of them getting him to feel this good; Leo got breath back enough to say, “Oh, that’s unfair, I did feel good, no blaming anyone else, it’s just you’re some sort of genius…”

“Glad you think so, but this is about you.” Sam slid the fingers back, plunged them in again, a thrust: finding that spot and working it relentlessly. “The way you react, the way you feel it all…you feel that, me doing this to you? That’s you feeling it. Your body. What it can do.”

“With your help, yes…” Even the air had become incendiary. Every nerve ending crackled. His cock smeared a pool of its own wetness over his stomach. “I need…please…it’s good because it’s you, you’re doing it, but please do more…you said you’d fuck me, you’d show me how that feels, so please…”

“A little more.” Sam twisted fingers, stretched him, opened him: playing with him now, getting him slick and ready, pressing a third finger in evidently just to torture Leo’s senses, which had collectively become firecrackers and sugary rain.

Ice cream, he thought tipsily, and giggled, which was not a sound he’d expected to make at this point. He did feel a bit drunk. Intoxicated. Floaty.

“Still good?” Sam. Checking in. So kind. Big worried golden eyes, and a bit of hair falling forward into his face.

“Sprinkles,” Leo explained. “Ice cream.”

Sam thought about this for a second, then leaned down to lick the tip of Leo’s cock, a swipe of considerate tongue. “Delicious.”

Leo, to his own surprise, ended up giggling more. This made Sam laugh, and then they were laughing together, smiling at each other, Sam’s hand moving inside Leo’s body and the coziness of familiar sheets all around.

“Okay.” Sam moved the hand. Leo’s muscles rippled unhappily, empty. “Okay, I’m going to…um, it’ll be easier if you turn over. As far as angles and this being, well. Easy.”

“No. I want to see you.”

“ _Definitely_ the bossy kind. But I like seeing you, too.” Sam made a lunge, grabbed a pillow. “Here. Under your hips.”

Leo squirmed around. “Satisfied? Or is there anything else? Where do I put my hands?”

“Anywhere you want.” Sam knelt above him, over him; close enough that Leo could see every flex of muscle, those small taut nipples, the thick shaft of that cock. Sam bent to kiss him; Sam had, after all, said _anywhere_ , so Leo reached up and wrapped a hand around the girth and felt all the heat and veins and textured-satin thickness.

Sam’s hips shifted into the grip; his cock slid through Leo’s hand. “Your hands’re pretty good there. And you can touch all you want. But you want something else, too. Tell me what you want. I know you want to say it.”

“I want you,” Leo whispered. “In me.”

“Happy to.” Sam stretched out an arm, scooped up a packet—oh, yes, they should indeed use condoms, Leo remembered amid the clouds—and took care of putting it on, plus some extra lube. He knelt back between Leo’s thighs, after. “Okay, we’ll take this slow, and you stop me if it’s not feeling good, understand?”

“Yes, understood, just get on with—” The words dissolved. Sam had moved, and the head of that big thick cock pushed into the entrance of his body, and Leo forgot how to know anything except that.

So big. So much. Pressing forward and in, and it did not hurt, not precisely like pain, but he felt stretched, pulled wide open, stuffed to the brim—

He wasn’t certain he could take more. He tried pushing out, opening up, breathing; his body trembled and struggled to accommodate the width. Sam moved more, sunk deeper, and Leo gasped and clung to Sam’s shoulders—when had he begun holding on?—and might’ve been crying a bit. His vision blurred.

“Oh, Leo,” Sam was saying, voice cracking, “Leo, look at me, you’re okay—tell me you’re okay—god, you feel so fucking good—so good, taking this, taking me—is it hurting, am I hurting you, do you want me to stop—?” One hand, not the lube-messy one, came up to stroke Leo’s hair. The other was taking some of his weight. “God—you’re crying—”

“Because it feels,” Leo managed. “It feels…you feel…so large…so much…I’m not hurt.”

“Are you sure?” Sam kept petting him: comfort for the both of them. “We can stop.”

“Don’t you dare! I like feeling you.” He shifted hips experimentally. Sam hadn’t stirred, no doubt afraid to. But that cock filled him up in a way he liked, hard and piercing and satisfying in a bone-deep sense, as if he’d needed this all his life.

He wriggled again, and suddenly something got even more right: celebrations of glitter streaked along his veins. “ _Oh_.”

“More good sounds?” Sam kissed him: a quick brush of lips, eyes intent on Leo’s. “You want more? This angle?”

“Oh yes. More.”

Sam promptly found that angle again. Thrust. Drew back a bit, and thrust again. Leo let out a breath, long and shivering, and then discovered that he could move too and it felt lovely when he did, himself rocking up into Sam’s thrusts, hips meeting and working together. Sam kept hitting that iridescent spot inside him and Leo kept making tiny wordless sounds, and he never wanted to stop, he wanted this rhythm forever, he wanted to be fucked by Sam like this forever, on his back with those radiant eyes gazing down at him.

Sam’s motions sped up. Faster. A little harder, and then even more so. Leo had thought everything felt resplendent; he realized he’d been wrong, this was more, this was wild and pounding and swelling and building, brightness gathering up and winding tighter and tighter, and he could only think of the word yes, so he said it over and over again.

Sam groaned his name. Got a hand on Leo’s cock, between their bodies. Slammed forward. And the brightness burst and cracked and spilled diamonds everyplace, wrung out of Leo’s body and all over Sam’s hand and his own stomach, as Sam went tense and openmouthed, shaking with release as Leo clenched around him.

They lay still for a moment, breathless, triumphant. Lamplight hugged Leo’s shoulder, Sam’s bicep.

“Well,” Leo managed finally, “I’d say…satisfying…is certainly one word…”

Sam dropped a kiss on his nose. “I like paying attention to you.”

“I like everything about this.” At some point he might have to process what that meant. His sexuality, his future, the fact that he’d just slept with a man who carried a camera around.

He didn’t feel like processing it all this second, however. So he chose not to. “I think I may be hungry. Is that appropriate etiquette? Food after sex?”

Sam kissed his eyebrow this time, evidently affectionate post-orgasm. “Sure. But let me clean us up first.”

“Oh. Should I help? Do you want—” He broke off. Sam had withdrawn. Slipping out of him. The question transformed into a hiss of air between teeth, as muscles returned to well-used reality instead of twinkling horizons.

Sam winced. “Don’t move. Lie still. I’ll take care of you, I swear.”

“I’m all right.” He was; it’d just been the shock and the dwindling endorphins and the awareness that he’d never had anything quite so extensive up there before. “I feel wonderful.”

Sam petted his leg this time, and cleaned him with the towel, and coaxed his thighs more apart, and checked him over despite Leo’s protestations of being fine. Leo, who had not ever had anyone gently inspect his hole post-sex before, had to put an arm over his face. His cheeks burned.

“ _You’re_ not embarrassed,” Sam said, amused. “I mean, _you_. Leo Whyte.”

Leo moved the arm. “I’m not.”

Sam kissed his knee, leaving a faint scrape of stubble-burn, then lay down and put an arm around him. “It’s okay if you are. Sorry. Didn’t mean to tease you.”

“You did, and it’s fine.” He wiggled fingers at the air, a gesture. “I’m always fine. I’m always fun. I’m not embarrassed.”

“You don’t have to be all of that,” Sam said. “I like that you’re you. Around me. Complicated.”

“I said I wasn’t.”

“And I said you’re the best person I know. How’re you feeling?”

“Good,” Leo decided. He was. The bizarre attack of bashfulness had faded. Sam’s arm around him, Sam’s body nestled against his, felt like a blanket, the secure cozy sort he could settle into on a rainy day. “Sitting down might be interesting later. That’s a dangerous weapon you’ve got. But you use it for fabulous purposes, so I’m not complaining. Was…it…good, or at least all right, for you?”

He’d almost said _was I good?_ But the question was far too needy and the answer was obvious; Sam, with all that experience, surely had a definition of good that did not include Leo’s first-time difficulties. He imagined it’d been at least acceptable; Sam had inarguably finished.

“What makes you think it wasn’t amazing?” Sam cuddled him even closer, bringing them face to face; one leg draped over both of Leo’s. “You’re amazing.”

“If you tell me what I ought to work on, I promise to try? For a next round? Can there be a next round? After food. I honestly am hungry now.”

Sam opened his mouth, shut it, sighed. “Leo…”

“I’ve got eggs, I think. And bread. And an avocado. Breakfast should always happen in the middle of the night. I keep telling people that.”

“Leo,” Sam said again, “yes to breakfast at night. Maybe to a next round. Something that doesn’t leave you sore. And you don’t have to work on anything.”

“Practice makes perfect, my grandmother always used to say?”

“We can practice if you want. But, and listen when I tell you this, you’re pretty damn perfect.”

“I’m—”

“No, really listen.” Sam’s toes poked him in the calf, without force. “That was _great_. Not, like, great for a first time, not great but you need to work on something, not great with qualifications, just great, okay? You and I have incredible sex. That’s just true.”

Leo considered this. “I suppose I can live with that. Having incredible sex with you.”

“Also,” Sam said, hand wandering down to fondle Leo’s now thoroughly worn-out cock, “this is pretty great too, and I definitely want to find out how it feels inside me, and we did say we’d show you everything, so we’re totally doing that at some point. Sound good?”

Leo’s brain turned that suggestion into a high-resolution color-saturated movie, and played it in vivid imagined detail. “…ah. Yes. You may need to give me some advice about angles and such, but I have, er, done that particular thing. With a girlfriend sort of person, that was. Not _exactly_ the same anatomy. But similar. At least I’ve got the basic idea.”

“I like you having ideas.” Sam stretched out the leg atop Leo’s, and put it back. “I like you telling me what you like. Was that your stomach?”

“I do keep saying I’m hungry. But I’m also quite comfortable now, if you don’t want to get up.”

“Come on.” Sam sat up. “Let’s find your late-night breakfast.”

They got up. They found robes, because of course Leo Whyte had robes: ridiculous fantastical quilted brocade fantasias that a Victorian aristocrat might’ve thrown on to lounge and sip port in. Sam mentally shook his head, pulling a sleeve on. Even the cuffs cavorted with embroidery.

Leo, all bundled up in blue and gold, beamed at him. And Sam couldn’t roll eyes about extravagant clothing anymore, because the robe was hugging Leo and keeping Leo warm, and the blue and gold picked up all the shades of wayward dark blond hair and summer-in-forest eyes, and robes were in fact pretty awesome, come to think of it.

His whole body hummed with pleasure. Satisfaction. Completion. A good workout. A release that left him weak in the knees when recalling it: the tightness of Leo’s body around him, the absolute unflinching joy in hazel eyes, the fearlessness and the yes in that plush voice and the way Leo’d gazed up at him in the moment right after…

Yes. So much yes. He wanted to do that over and over. Again and again.

He wanted to spend the whole damn night here. In Leo’s house, in Leo’s bed. The comprehension shook him to the core. The incongruity hit even harder.

Leo smiled at him more and opened a carton of eggs. “I’m not a genius cook the way Colby is, but I can handle eggs? And possibly beans on toast, though that’s not really an American thing, is it? But it could be.”

Leo Whyte, long legs bare under that robe, recently made love to—for the first time, at least the first with a man—and unselfconsciously comfortable in this small but luxurious kitchen, in this small but luxurious colorful house, practically glowed with contentment. Belonging. Someone who could afford a place in this neighborhood, who did not worry about the price of bread or how much a single snapshot might sell for.

Leo was successful. A good actor with a solid career. A man with a generous lonely heart, offered up without limit, without pretense. Every emotion was real.

Leo was happy. Sam had done that. He knew he had; the thought skewered his chest like a spear of ice, as Leo cracked an egg with one hand and a playful flourish.

Leo deserved better. Leo Whyte deserved someone who fit in here, in celebrity-studded streets and oversized plush robes. Someone who could stand on a red carpet with him and without shame.

He should go. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t’ve kissed Leo ever. And once he had, he shouldn’t’ve done more.

He could’ve let Leo’s first time with a man be special. Magical. With someone who hadn’t promised to send over pictures of all the juicy gossip from that premiere.

But Leo _was_ happy. Humming—off-key, but also not really trying—while poking at eggs. Hair standing up more on one side than the other. Barefoot and glancing Sam’s direction with a smile, every so often.

Sam couldn’t walk away. Couldn’t shatter all that joy.

He didn’t know whether that made him a good person or the exact opposite.

He leaned a hip against the kitchen counter because otherwise he’d reach for Leo. His hands ached to. “Want help?”

“Toss some bread in the toaster?” Leo waved a hand. “And avocado if you want. Not in the toaster. Unless you want that. I wonder if anyone’s invented toasted avocado slices? If not, it’s our idea and I’ll copyright it.”

Some people would’ve said no to an offer of assistance, out of pride or courtesy to a guest or a desire not to have someone poking around their kitchen. Leo Whyte took the offer and answered as if Sam belonged here too. As if they had a routine, domestic and established.

Sam looked at the toaster. It gazed back in unruffled appliance-quiet, clearly used to its owner.

The night—London, Chelsea, history and money and quirkiness, chilly February weather and stove-heat—shook out bones and settled in. Serene as a happy ending in a film.

In a film actor’s life. A silver-screen movie-star life. Not Sam’s.

He’d picked up his phone and dropped it into a robe-pocket, going downstairs: habit, both for work and in case a sibling needed him. Interestingly enough, so had Leo. Sam wasn’t sure what this meant, other than that Leo Whyte might be one of those people who liked having the comfort of constant connection to the larger world.

“Late night brunch means mimosas.” Leo plunged into his fridge. “Obviously. This isn’t the best champagne, but it’s not the worst either. Also we’re celebrating. Glasses are in that cupboard to your left, no, other left, sorry.”

“We’re celebrating?”

“My loss of gay sex virginity? My film premiere? You being here? All of the above.” The cork popped. Leo did that with casual ease, Sam noticed: not flinching from the release. “And you’re spending the night, aren’t you? We did say there’d be a round two.”

The lightness in that tone belied the question underneath. Hesitance opened chasms under the assumption.

The toast bounced up. Right into the moment.

Sam went to collect it, did not have a plate, glanced around. Picked a logical cupboard, and was correct. Leo bought interesting plates, grey with little glittery flecks that pinwheeled down one side.

He said, between dropping hot toast onto the plate, “Yeah. I mean…if you want.” He couldn’t quite look at Leo. What if, between the cork-pop and the cupboard, those quick hazel eyes had figured out just how much Sam didn’t belong? What if the offer was only Leo being kind, the way Leo Whyte was kind at heart?

No. Leo meant words when saying them. Unfiltered. Real.

“I do want.” Leo put eggs on a piece of toast, posed a champagne-flute beside it, whipped out his phone. “There. Pictures. Well, just one. Social media. The fans like it. I’ll tag it as ‘afterparty’ and confuse everyone. Actually it won’t, never mind, they’re used to me not doing the expected.”

“You share your life,” Sam said, picking up a mimosa, “with your fans.”

“I don’t have secrets, and it makes some people happy, somewhere, sometimes.” Leo twitched a shoulder, not exactly a shrug. “It’s just eggs.”

“You want me to stay.” He waited until Leo took a bite first. “I can. I want to. I have to leave in the morning.”

“I thought you might.” Leo fiddled with the stem of his glass. “Or you could…not. I’ll be in London for a while. Staying here.”

“I can’t,” Sam said. That specter of helpless distance rose; he couldn’t even be angry. Another world, another planet. “I can’t just…decide to stay. I need to go home. I need to check on my sisters. And then I’ll have to be in Atlanta, I think.” Trying to get set pictures, he did not say, from the latest superhero blockbuster. “I can’t drop everything and stay with you. I don’t even have a toothbrush.” True. It was back at his peeling-paint hotel.

“I have spares.” Leo’s eyes got a little more—not sad, not exactly. Resigned. Sam hated the emotion and the fact that he’d put it there. “But never mind. It wasn’t a fair question. This is tonight, and this is wonderful, and I’m glad you’re here. Though I’m realizing how much I don’t know about you. Sisters?”

“Two,” Sam explained, “the twins, plus my brother,” and then ended up telling Leo Whyte all about his family, not about the finances or the grief but about Diana’s work for her school newspaper and Thea’s varsity letter in swimming and Carlos’s dreams about graduate school, about the time the three of them had made him a completely terrible breakfast in bed for his birthday, about the reasons they had a family ban on playing Monopoly and how they’d never found the top hat playing-piece again.

Somewhere in the back of his head the puzzle pieces didn’t align, or only did so with disbelief. This was himself, talking about his family to Leo Whyte. Over eggs and toast and mimosas at two-thirty in the morning. In Leo’s kitchen. Naked under a robe. After one of the best orgasms of his life.

He even took out his phone and showed off a picture or two, carefully chosen. A birthday party, a swim meet, a heap of siblings on the sofa watching a movie. He adored his family; he wanted Leo to see them. Leo did not try to take the phone and scroll through photos; his expression went from surprise at the sharing to soft warmth, looking at the screen.

Leo was also a good listener: asking questions, nodding, inviting more words with eyebrows and head-tips. So mobile, so expressive. Nothing hidden, everything on the surface, worn openly. Sam loved that. Sam loved—

He froze mid-word. Love?

Mimosa. A sip. A large one. Faking crumbs in his throat. The toast, being a good ally, did not betray him.

“You miss them,” Leo said. “I would too, if I had siblings. Of course you’ll need to go. What time’s your flight?”

“Ten. Not too bad, but I’ll need to get there early. The airport.” Words. Making sense. What were they?

He couldn’t be in love with Leo Whyte. Not so fast. Not after a night. A night and a kiss.

That wasn’t how love worked. Love was more difficult, hard-won, rare. In Leo’s movie it’d required sacrifice, a battle, a lost arm. From what Sam had seen, his mother and Jack had both been nervous, finding a second chance with someone new, after scars and time.

Love wasn’t the slide of Leo’s robe off one shoulder or the way Leo had simply accepted Sam’s priorities or the fact that Sam had successfully guessed which cupboard the plates would be in. That wasn’t _possible_.

He stared at a corner of toast. The toast, despite general helpfulness, did not spontaneously provide an answer.

This _wasn’t_ possible. Because he was who he was, and movie-star Leo Whyte was Leo Whyte. No getting around that. A roadblock. Massive.

“We can sort out the airport in the morning.” Leo shamelessly licked butter from fingers. “I had a question. Only wondering.”

“Sure…”

“What’s your favorite subject? For photographs. I don’t mean for the job. We’ll continue avoiding that elephant for now. I mean what you like. Your family, those pictures, even the casual ones—you capture such life in them.” Leo regarded him over toast-crumbs and an empty glass. “I thought it felt like love. Not only for your siblings.”

Sam had just picked up the end of the toast as a distraction, and nearly dropped it.

He’d never been asked that before. Not by anyone. Not ever. Before he’d left college he’d sometimes had conversations about favorite styles, techniques, specific locations, color or lack of color. The choices of artistic subject had sometimes been assignments, and sometimes just taken for granted: he’d picked what he found interesting, self-evidently. And after…in his job, this job…

Leo Whyte had asked. Had wanted to know.

He said, “People,” and heard the roughness in his voice. “Not necessarily close-ups or anything posed. From a distance, even. In motion. On streets. Farmers’ markets. Concerts. Shopping. Just…being people.”

Leo nodded, taking this in, taking it seriously. “I can see that. The way you see the world. Stories in the ordinary.”

“You’re not ordinary,” Sam said, and their eyes met. The champagne sparkled. The toast-crumbs cheered.

They ran back to Leo’s bed hand in hand. They lost clothing and fell into sheets, and Sam tried to kiss Leo from head to toes, every inch of pale English skin, every word he didn’t know how to say. Leo laughed and kissed back and wanted to know more, to discover everything, to get hands and mouths everyplace. Their robes met in a single discarded heap, cheerfully mingled.

Sam refused to let Leo be overly sore and also genuinely wanted Leo to try everything, so they ended up with Leo on top, long lovely cock sinking into Sam’s body as Sam’s fingers teased those pink nipples some more, with the hint of roughness that’d worked so well. They both caught breath simultaneously, rocking together.

They came that way, together, too.

Leo, having come three times and trembling all over in the aftermath of this one—Sam had maybe gotten a bit _too_ rough, he concluded guiltily; Leo hadn’t said to stop, but his nipples were visibly reddened and he’d been shaky and wanting to be held, after—got a little unfocused, sex-hazy, soft and pliable and quieter than before. Sam helped steady him in the bathroom, where Leo’s extravagant shower and tub each took up an ocean’s worth of space, and figured out hot and cold taps.

He opted for the shower because it’d be quicker—they’d barely get much sleep as it was—but he kept stealing glances at the tub. He wanted to set Leo into it, surrounded by steaming water and cared for by his hands. He wanted to let the heat soothe Leo’s soreness, and maybe to get in with him, or just sit on the side and wash that soft blond hair and maybe tease that delectable cock a time or two.

He wanted more time. He wanted more.

Leo was tactile, cuddly, wanting to be touched and to touch, under shower-spray. Sam washed his back and cleaned him up. Felt the pang in his chest, beneath his breastbone, as if a drop of too-hot water’d slipped into his heart and scalded it.

He wouldn’t mind the scalding. He’d carry this night with him in every form. Every scar.

Back in bed, Leo promptly curled up into Sam’s arms. Sam thought he might be falling asleep, and was prepared to hold him and keep him warm for whatever hours they had left.

Sleep wasn’t important. Holding Leo was.

Leo, who was not asleep, observed, “I’m very tired. But that was…phenomenal.”

“It was.” You are, he thought. “Still okay? Not hurting anywhere?” His own body ached a bit, deliciously so; it’d been a while. He liked the feeling.

“Not hurting.” Leo yawned into his shoulder. “Sensitive, I think…everything’s good but sort of laid bare round the edges. As if I’ve been turned inside out. All the nerves on the outside.”

“That…doesn’t sound comfortable.”

“It’s wonderful, in fact. Twinkling. Tingling. Is this normal for you? So much in one night?”

Sam had to laugh. “No.” Nothing about this night was normal. The opposite. The shining reverent reverse of normal.

“Good, then. I do like to be memorable.”

“You are.” He stroked Leo’s hair. “You are. Go to sleep.”

“Mmm. Tell me something else. Something about you.”

“Anything in particular you want to know?”

“No. Just something. Where you grew up. How old you are. Nothing big. I only realized I don’t even know that.” One of Leo’s eyes opened enough to peek up at him. “Nothing you don’t want to say. I just…like knowing things.”

“Well,” Sam said, and touched the spot by Leo’s eye, lightly, “I did grow up in Vegas, or just outside—the suburbs—and I’m thirty-one, and I like really good dark chocolate but not milk chocolate, ever, and I’ll admit to having a Zak Starfighter action figure on my desk. Mostly for nostalgia.”

“Oh my god,” Leo said, deadpan and untroubled and languid against him, “I’m sleeping with a younger man.”

“You’re my age! Aren’t you?”

“Close. Thirty-three.” Leo yawned again. “I like dark chocolate as well. Though I also like sweetness. I’d watch cartoons with you if you wanted. I like most things really.”

“I know you do.”

“I like _you_. I shouldn’t, we both know why, but I do.”

“Well,” Sam said again, amused and aching, heart full to the point of breaking apart, “good. I like you, Leo Whyte. Kind of a lot.”

“You can take a picture of me in sweatpants in the morning,” Leo said sleepily. “At home. If you need something. I know…I know it’s your job. And you came home with me, not to any of the parties and events where there’d be proper celebrities…I can do that for you.”

Sam’s heart, which had been teetering at that fracture-point, shattered. He made himself breathe around the impact.

Leo Whyte at home, intimate and personal, an exclusive shot, would be worth a decent amount. Not as much as, say, Colby Kent doing the same; but _nobody_ got pictures of Colby. And magazines always wanted spots filled for those features: stars being just like us, eating food, wearing sweatpants…

He could sell it. And Leo had offered.

He said, “What the hell do you mean, proper celebrities?” and wound a lock of Leo’s hair around a finger and tugged, not hard. “You _are_.”

“Sorry,” Leo said, more awake, “were you scolding me, just now? Ouch. Or something.”

“Really ouch, or more something? And don’t fucking say that. About yourself. Or I’ll do it again.”

“Ah…more like you playing with my nipples. Or playing with me when I’ve just come and I’m over-sensitive. A lot, but in a sparkly way.” Leo sounded drowsy, surprised, and kind of into it. “I do like you being a bit rough with me, evidently. And you didn’t actually answer, about my offer.”

He should’ve known. Leo would never step out of the way of a hurtling boulder. Would try to face it head-on and keep it from hitting anyone else if possible. “I didn’t. I don’t know. I…should.” Jameson and the _Daily World News_ would love him. Other outlets might be willing to pay for non-exclusive copies.

“Then if you should, and I don’t mind, is there a problem?”

“…I guess…not.” His chest felt hollow. He didn’t know why. He bought time by loosening fingers and running them through Leo’s hair. “You’re worth more than you think.”

“This will help you, and it won’t hurt me.” Leo tightened an arm around him, Sam, in turn: underscoring the decision. “Sleep with me. For whatever time we’ve got.”

A few short hours. An illusion of another life. Suspended between an antique movie theater and the bills and mortgage payments back home. A flickering scene.

A snapshot.

“I’ll wake you up,” he said, “in the morning. With enough time for…whatever. We’ll see. Just rest. I’m here.”

“You are.” Leo nuzzled more into his chest. “Sam. And my soap. Lemon. ’S nice. Like sex with you. Nice.”

“I’m glad I can be your lemon?” He kneaded the back of Leo’s neck, let his hand cup Leo’s head. “Go to sleep, Leo.”

Leo let out a contented wordless mumble and did, almost instantly: as if secure with Sam’s hand on him and Sam’s body wrapped around his in bed.

Sam exhaled. Leo’s breathing whispered steady over his skin; the shapes of a dresser, a lamp, their robes, collectively turned the bedroom into an oasis, enclosed in shades of night.

The morning would be the morning. He’d face it then.

 _They’d_ face it then. Because if he’d learned anything about Leo Whyte, that was it: Leo would never not want to do something, on behalf of a friend.

And they were friends. Sam didn’t know how, but that’d happened; in a limousine, in Leo’s ktchen, in Leo’s bed. The sex had been incredible and he hoped—god, he hoped—that Leo had loved every introduction and wouldn’t regret any of it. But even beyond that…

He’d made Leo laugh. Leo made him want to laugh. They’d made toast.

Leo had asked about taking pictures. Had seen him, seen through him, to the person who still sometimes wished the world had been different, who wanted photographs in gallery exhibits and art books that people would save and look through and be moved by. Had used the word _love_.

Sam, in the dark, holding Leo and holding onto Leo, felt his heart thump against the cage of his chest.

He knew Leo had arranged this night. Leo had wanted to try sex with a man, and had for some reason liked Sam. Had been intrigued by him. Trusted him.

Leo had chosen him, and Sam would never be anything but honored; he couldn’t ask for more than this encounter. Wouldn’t dare. Lucky enough to have this time, this second time, when he’d never thought he’d see Leo Whyte again.

He’d have this and he’d keep the memory safe, tucked like a sepia-toned picture next to his heart, a love-letter he could imagine from time to time, when he needed to smile.

He kissed the top of Leo’s head. The scents of lemon soap, of papaya shampoo, made him smile as they stabbed his heart.

He shut his eyes, and held on.


	4. London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it's the morning after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, I'm starting to suspect this story may be longer than I'd thought...
> 
> Next chapter, a Jason-and-Colby appearance! I promise. :D

Leo woke far too early, but the waking came with a kiss, so he did not mind as much. He cracked open eyes, recognized the bulk of an unexpected presence beside him, had a brief moment of utter bewilderment, moved a leg, and remembered.

Physically. Incontrovertibly.

“Oh. Oh, _my_.”

Sam balanced on an elbow beside him, left his legs tangled up with Leo’s, got visibly concerned. In pearlescent dawnlight his eyes were dark gold as temptation, and gave away nothing of whatever he’d been thinking when offering a fairytale awakening. “Sore?”

“Let’s say I’m…noticing everything we did.” Leo yawned. This was himself in bed with a man. This was himself, in bed with a man, much too early the morning after. A bit sore—well, perhaps more than a bit, but not so much he’d admit to anything; he’d felt far worse after fight training and flying-harness stunts on various sets—and inarguably nestled into a firm masculine body.

All right. He’d woken up with people before. And his bed remained his bed, luxurious and pillow-topped and layered with indulgent fluff. And the person in his bed was Sam.

And Leo couldn’t find any sort of real panic about that fact, though maybe he should at some point do some re-evaluation of self and sexuality. “You’re a splendid bed-warmer. Are we getting up?”

“You don’t have to.” Sam touched him while talking: cheek, shoulder, hip. Sam did like touching, Leo concluded all over again. “I can get up and go. You can stay in bed. Stay warm.”

“No, I promised.” He wriggled closer, though. Sharing naked skin, under the weight of sheets and covers. The indigo pool of his duvet kept them close. “I’m entirely skipping the gym this morning, though.”

Sam’s hand encountered Leo’s backside. Squeezed appreciatively. Lingered there. “I think you’re allowed that much. What’re you up to, anyway? After your successful world-changing film premiere.”

“Is it? I hope so—those stories need telling—but we’ll see how the reviews turn out. I’ll read a few once I’m more awake. We’ve got some press to do, this afternoon, tomorrow, and then next week when we hit New York and Los Angeles. Would you like tea? Coffee? Pictures of me?” He knew Sam had to leave. He did not want Sam to leave. The extent of not wanting that astounded him.

“Right now I want to do something else for you.” The exploring hand snuck over between Leo’s legs. Leo’s cock, which had quite liked awakening with that large radiator-heat right up against him, perked up further. “The way you look…the way this feels…god, I want to do things to you.”

“Do you always feel like sex in the morning? Not that I’m saying no. I’m quite interested.” So was Sam, given the thick upright stiffness nudging Leo’s thigh. “So _that_ part feels different. Your, er, literal part. As far as waking up with someone.”

Sam’s hand did not leave Leo’s morning arousal, but ceased moving. “If you don’t want…I mean I get it, you said before you weren’t usually into guys…and if you want to say this never happened…”

“No, no, not at all! I’m not about to pretend I’m not into you when I am, and I think I’ll have some sorting out to do but I’m quite happy to do it. I won’t even be bothered if you tell people about this…though…perhaps give me a day or so to have dinner with my parents first? If you wouldn’t mind.”

Sam’s eyes did something complicated: a wince, a flinching from a dart-wound, a resolution. “I won’t tell anyone.”

“I don’t hide anything,” Leo told him. “And I very rarely regret things.”

“No.” The dart didn’t quite land. The wound knit itself back together, entertained. “Not you. You’re yourself for the world. And for me, right now. I won’t tell anyone, though. That way you can decide what you want to do, whenever you want to do it.”

“Oh,” Leo said. “That’s…well. Thank you. For that. Would you like to do _me_ , right now? I would like that.” He would. Looking into Sam’s eyes, all treasure-brown against a frame of winter-blue sheets, he saw the promise and the conviction; gold slipped along his bones and gathered and pooled into need, all at once. “What else would you like to show me?”

Sam gave him a curious sort of head-tip, between laughter and ruefulness; his hand resumed stroking Leo’s cock, which very much agreed with the attention. Leo, who had always preferred talking over silence and having to guess, inquired, “Is that the plan? Your hands on me? Can I put my hands on you?”

Sam did start laughing, this time. Strokes sped up, stoking fires. “You really do mean it, don’t you? You want this.”

“I want you,” Leo informed him. “I say what I’m thinking. For instance, at the moment I would like you to do that more, and maybe a bit harder? Like…” Oh, well; he _had_ just said he’d say what he was thinking. “Like, oh, when you did a bit of pulling on my hair? Like that, sort of. Intensity.”

“Intensity, huh?” Sam slowed the next stroke, rubbing his big hand torturously gradually along Leo’s poor yearning length; Leo nearly protested, but then Sam caught the head with his thumb and did a little scrape of thumbnail over the tip, right at the slit, and Leo yelped as brightness shot through his entire body, more shock than pain and skewered with pleasure. “Like that?”

“So much like that,” Leo agreed weakly, lying very still indeed now, just letting Sam’s hand take him and take over all of him. “Is that the plan? You just…er…do this, and I come all over your hand? But what about you? What can I do?”

“Hmm.” Sam drummed fingers along Leo’s cock. Leo, delighting in every new sensation and every proprietary edge of the grip, wriggled a little in appreciation. Sam grinned. “You do like me playing with that. How do you feel about oral? Specifically—”

“Me or you? Yes.”

“Or you could wait for me to finish talking.” Sam leaned down, though, and licked the tip of Leo’s cock, so that was perfect. His hair fell in all sorts of directions, and Leo wanted to kiss him. “Both at once, to answer the question.”

“Oh,” Leo said, and then, “Oh! Yes. So much yes. Er…directorial input, please.”

Sam tugged gently at Leo’s cock: assertive but playful, the way they were both learning that Leo enjoyed. Some more wetness beaded up to play along too. “Lie down. And I’ll just—”

He squirmed around. They ended up pressed together, a proper sixty-nine position, bodies flexible and eager and close. Sam’s mouth nudged Leo’s cock, dark hair tickling Leo’s thighs; Leo, newly eye to eye with Sam’s large heated girth, blinked and considered size and masculinity and that full shiny head and his own mouth.

He wanted to dive in and taste it all—but the wanting was oddly shy as well, something vulnerable and wanton and intimate, utter decadence combined with strange bashfulness. What if he wasn’t coordinated enough? What if he couldn’t think enough to give Sam the same amount of pleasure?

He liked the muscles of Sam’s thighs, though, and the scent of Sam’s body, and the firm male beauty of that cock and those balls and the light fuzz of hair. He licked Sam’s inner thigh on impulse. Sam said, words tracing kisses over Leo’s rigid arousal, “Go on, I like that.”

“You do?”

“You doing what you want, with me? Yeah. Taste anything you want. Go on.”

Leo did not quite laugh, but breathed out an exhale of happiness. Giddy rainbows. Early-morning sun. February air, crisp and alive. Clear in his lungs, in his chest. Like a valentine. Shaped like Sam.

He licked Sam’s cock, a little hesitantly; then he moved his head a bit, found a better angle, and felt the whole heavy weight of it slide into his mouth, over his tongue, into his throat. Filling him up, as he sucked at it and took it down and closed lips around the base.

Sam groaned, wordless and deep; wet heat wrapped around Leo’s cock in turn, and Sam’s mouth began sucking at him, surrounding him, skillfully working him with tongue and lips and throat. Leo tried to moan, became even more deliciously aware of the cock pushing into his own mouth, and felt his hips jerk with reaction.

Sam did more, then. So much more, licking and sucking and causing fiery shimmers and streaks of sensation all through Leo’s body, centered on his cock but flooding out everyplace. He could not have said what, specifically, that marvelous mouth was doing; he could only feel, and he felt everything. Sam’s cock rocking, thrusting, not hard but in quick small motions into his own throat; his body pressed wholly against Sam’s; the smooth cradle of sheets; the iridescent unrelenting swirl of ecstasy that was happening and kept on happening between his legs…

Something pressed lightly behind his balls. A fingertip, a caress. Leo shuddered helplessly, on the brink.

The fingertip, wet and slick, drifted back. It rubbed at his hole: not penetrating, but stroking over the rim, teasing the furl of muscle, hinting at the idea, the remembrance of thrusts there too, Sam’s body sinking in. The rubbing did not cease, and Sam’s mouth drew him deeper and deeper, and all at once Leo was shaking and quivering and coming apart, coming to pieces, flung dizzily upside-down and head-over-heels and inside-out by the wave as it peaked and crashed, like this, just like this, with Sam’s cock plundering his mouth and Sam’s hands teasing his body over the edge.

And Sam’s hips snapped forward, harder now and sudden, burying Leo’s face between strong tanned thighs—and there was more heat, more of that fabulous newfound salty male flavor, pumping into his throat and over his tongue, so much it spilled up around the corners of his mouth even as he swallowed and swallowed more, dazed by sheer bliss. He could not think; he could only feel it all and taste it all and take it all, swept away and floating and full of white light.

The ecstatic heat between Leo’s legs lifted for a moment; Sam’s voice murmured something, but Leo couldn’t hear. Sam’s tongue lapped at him again after, bathing sensitive flesh in even more attention; Leo tried to reply by suckling at Sam’s softening cock, a welcome wondrous occupation for his mouth, and also tried to arch his hips up in confirmation that, yes, he loved the exquisite racing sharpness of almost-but-not-quite too much, as Sam’s mouth stayed busy on him.

Somehow he’d ended up more on his back, more or less beneath Sam’s weight, and that felt exactly right. So did the anguished brilliance of the licking and lapping, making nerve-endings fizz and fray and fill with heady static; he never wanted this feeling to end, even as he writhed and squirmed and twitched in place under the anchor.

Eventually the quivery riots of feeling dwindled, ebbing, draining into easier sensations; Sam had stopped moving, and his mouth slid off Leo’s cock. His hips moved too: thick spent length slipping from Leo’s mouth.

Leo whimpered at the emptiness. His mouth felt messy, sticky with trickles of Sam’s climax; he wanted more, or to be held, or to weep from pure unadulterated awe and release, or—

“Leo.” Sam rearranged them hastily. Folded arms around him. Kept him close, secure, tethered. A thumb brushed the corners of Leo’s lips, cleaning traces of everything they’d just done. “Oh, Leo. Shh, you’re okay, I’ve got you, you’re fantastic. So fucking fantastic, Leo, God. Can you look at me?”

That American accent, burnished by tawny contented completion, poured comfort into all the corners of Leo’s bedroom. Burnished white bedposts and dresser drawers and Leo’s heart to a gleaming shine.

He managed, “Leo God, you say…I like that…”

Sam made an utterly undignified sound and hid laughter in Leo’s hair. “Fucking _perfect_. I’m sorry about, um, not giving you much warning, there. When I, um. Couldn’t _not_ come like that, with you—I didn’t mean to, you shouldn’t’ve had to—you just felt so damn good.”

“So that _was_ good?” In the next second he wished he hadn’t asked, hadn’t needed to ask; he could only hope the question’d come out flip and casual, as if he’d asked precisely because the asking was a joke.

Sam hugged him more tightly. Said into Leo’s hair, mouth nuzzling Leo’s head, “Yeah, Leo. That was good. That was great. If you hadn’t noticed.” He paused. Pulled back. Searched Leo’s expression. “It was for you, too, right?”

“Yes,” Leo whispered. “Oh, yes.”

“I’m glad.” Sam touched the corner of Leo’s mouth again. “You didn’t mind? Me, y’know. Kinda asking a lot of you, for a first time.”

“I told you I want to know.” He shut both eyes, tipped his head into Sam’s hand. Let himself want and feel and simply be, just for an instant. “I loved it.”

“You sound tired.” Sam stroked a thumb over Leo’s cheekbone. “I’d say I’m sorry about that, except I’m not. Your voice, though…here, I’ll at least get you water. Stay still for a sec.”

“Mmm,” Leo said, “all right…” and tucked himself down into the warm spot left by Sam’s body. Water flipped on—Sam had found glasses, obviously—and off; a heap of indigo watched him, smiling in duvet-fluff.

Stunned by exultance, Leo flopped to his back, starfished on the bed, stared blankly at his ceiling. His ceiling smirked back; voyeur, he thought exhaustedly at it. But his bedroom approved of everything they’d just done, so that was all right.

His mouth tasted like Sam, which was like nothing else ever. He stuck out his tongue. Tried to squint at it.

“What’re you doing?” Sam settled down beside him, propped on an elbow. One big hand landed across Leo’s stomach, evidently just to touch. The other offered water, in a familiar glass that caught the morning and became extraordinary.

“Trying to see the flavor,” Leo explained. “You. On my tongue.”

The complete honest guilelessness of that reply charmed Sam’s heart into wordless emotion. He sat still and looked at Leo for a second: Leo Whyte, beautiful and freshly loved and fascinated by the world. Trying to see flavor, to taste Sam, on his tongue.

He wanted to kiss Leo all over. He wanted to tumble Leo down into sticky sheets and laugh. He felt like sunlight, like holiday mornings, like the scent in the seconds just before rain.

Leo said, “I know that’s probably less than possible, seeing flavor, but why not try?” and reached over and took the water and took a sip, and then pulled Sam closer, fitting their bodies together. Sam breathed a kiss over his temple, tasted soft sandy blond hair, never wanted to leave this bed with its mountains of color and pillows and lavish mattress-topper ever again.

He asked, hand sneaking to the back of Leo’s head, cradling Leo against him, “Feeling better?” He hoped so. God, he hoped.

Leo hadn’t been feeling _bad_ , he thought. Overcome by sensation. Flexible voice gone scratchy around the edges, used hard. But enjoyably. He believed that. Leo had said so.

The sweetness of it all hurt too much. Clear-etched as streetlamps spilling light.

Leo looked up from water. He’d been sipping slowly, and a drop clung to his top lip before he licked it away. Sam’s whole entire self, despite recent exertion, swelled with desire. Naked, he held onto Leo as hard as he could.

Leo’s lips quirked into a smile. “Feeling thoroughly spoiled. You taking care of me, holding me…you getting me to feel all of that…everything I’ve felt…it’s so much. I’m all wrung out and twinkly.”

“Sounds about right.” He took the glass when Leo handed it back, and set it on the bedside table. “Done?”

“Unromantically,” Leo said, “I may in fact need to brush my teeth? Not because of you. Just because it’s the morning and I like clean teeth.”

Sam collapsed into laughter. Couldn’t help it. Not because the line was even funny. Because it felt so right: so domestic, so unguarded, so much like the exact collection of words for that exact moment in time.

“And here I wasn’t even trying to be entertaining.” Leo waved a hand. “I’ll talk about showering next. My entire morning routine, narrated for your pleasure.”

“No,” Sam tried to explain, “no, no…I’m not laughing at you…I’m just…laughing…”

“Because of my toothbrush? I hadn’t thought about it, but I suppose if you like me putting things in my mouth…” Leo’s smile wasn’t the one displayed across movie posters or on-screen roles. This one was personal, not a performance, and consequently braver than Sam could’ve ever guessed: happy, mischievous, just a little proud of himself for making someone else happy too. “I wonder whether entertainingly-shaped toothbrushes exist? Like certain aspects of the male anatomy. Or other things. Like dinosaurs or pineapples. I’ll ask the internet later.”

I love you, Sam thought. I love you and the dinosaurs and your toothbrush—

He didn’t say it. He couldn’t say it.

He kissed Leo instead. Long and deep and inarguable. And tasting sort of like himself, but that was okay; he didn’t mind. He’d kiss Leo Whyte forever if he were ever allowed.

They got out of bed. They brushed teeth and cleaned up and got dressed: hips and arms bumping, touching a lot, encountering each other over and over in shared space. Easy, so easy: as if they’d had a routine for years, Leo’s hand finding Sam’s too-large shirt, Sam looping a finger into Leo’s boxers and tugging him in for a kiss. When Leo first held up a toothbrush, in the bathroom, they both burst out laughing.

Leo kissed him amid amber lamplight as it fought the chill of a too-early London morning, and said, “Did you want to—to take any photographs? Of me, here at home? I really am offering and you’ll need something to show for your time away.” His eyes were more serious than gossip suggested they could ever be. Generosity and commitment lined up among green and brown forest groves.

His posture, his motions, were easy too, untroubled, but also a hint more careful than usual; no regrets, but probably, yeah, decently sore, Sam realized. First times. Exertion. All that.

He said, while the world developed fault lines and the cracking raced along his veins, “If you want…” He couldn’t let Leo offer this. Except for how he could, obviously, because he was. He was saying yes. Using Leo. Using Leo’s kindness for a paycheck.

 _Was_ it that awful, if Leo knew about it and offered willingly? Did that make a difference? Should it?

Or was that suddenly worse, because Leo felt the need to make the offer?

“What would work best? More candid, I’d guess, so nothing looks staged? Not that I’m going to make you go out of doors and crouch in my bushes.”

Sam had never quite done that, though he hadn’t been above hiding behind cars or lurking outside nightclubs. More fractures, more love, more impossibilities. Getting too familiar, that canyon in his chest. “You, um. You in that robe would actually be awesome. Being comfortable and self-indulgent, at home…maybe in the kitchen, or out on your balcony, up here…”

“Oh, absolutely.” Leo sparkled at him: turning necessity into play, complications into kindness and conspiratorial scene-setting. Real magic hid in that grin. The kind that didn’t deny gravity and pain, but took up and wove potential crash-landings into other possibilities, brighter strands of hazel and blond, English Breakfast tea with sugar, imagination and exploration. “It’s rather fun, isn’t it? Sneakily setting this up. A secret. You and me. Any advice about my hair, or other wardrobe tips, or suggestions about posing, from the art director’s point of view?”

Sam snorted, tugged him closer and bit his ear because that felt right too—Leo beamed as if that’d been exactly the desired reaction—and retorted, “This director definitely thinks you’re a piece of art,” which came out completely nonsensical but made Leo laugh, barefoot with an armful of elaborate robe.

He wanted to say more. He wanted to say whatever came to mind, whatever he was thinking, no matter how ridiculous. He liked being ridiculous around Leo.

He found his phone. The camera was decent; not the best possible quality, but it’d do. He’d gotten used to adapting, improvising, catching a moment, working with what he had.

He ignored several emails about when he might get around to submitting the rest of his work—photos, a quick write-up—from the premiere and afterparties. Jameson had gotten progressively more annoyed at the lack of response, but would take whatever Sam sent in; they both knew how much a firsthand account, and pictures of Colby Kent out in public in that rainbow-lined suit-jacket, were worth.

He refused to think about Jameson, or the tabloid covers, or the whole ugly snarl of his job. He wanted to think about Leo: currently somehow both classy and adorable, hair rumpled and standing up attractively, bundled up in decadent fabric but letting it slip open in front, playing with a robe-tie apparently just because, flipping it around and making it spin.

Sam’s heart spun around too, a loop of fondness and need and awareness that left him dizzy with roller-coaster desires.

Leo looked up and smiled. “Balcony first, while we’re up here?”

“…yeah.” He had to clear his throat. “Yeah.”

On a London morning, bathed in barely-risen sun, he caught Leo Whyte laughing and half-dressed in blue and gold brocade extravagance on a silver of townhouse balcony. He caught Leo Whyte sipping tea, barefoot, gazing out over gardens and rooftops; he caught Leo yawning and stretching, swinging arms up. He caught Leo pensively quietly happy, smiling down into a teacup.

That last one would sell copies. It was also one Sam wanted for himself alone.

Leo was a genius actor. Could pretend readily that the camera wasn’t there, stepping easily into a performance: as if he’d genuinely wandered out onto the balcony for a morning cup of tea and not noticed a photographer. And he could do all that while giving flawless angles, head-tilts, interesting expressions.

Leo’s face was always doing something; Sam had thought that at the premiere, and thought it again now. Even at rest, he was fascinating to watch: in motion, thinking, feeling. Open and vivid. Shared with everybody who wanted to join in.

Sam, trying to capture that vibrance—and to make it look as if he’d snuck up someplace, maybe the balcony next door, and snagged one of the best vantage points of all time, all without giving away that Leo knew he was there—took shot after shot. Sunrise, color, Leo’s bare legs. Leo sharing a moment with the tea, warming hands.

Leo did glance over at him occasionally and grin. Sam couldn’t not grin back.

He loved the art of it. He loved the glint of light on porcelain—the old-fashioned teacup’d been Leo’s idea; pale pink roses blossomed over eggshell white—and he loved the interplay of time and place, hints of older eras in Leo’s robe and the teacup, side by side with Leo’s naked toes and the moss-green flutter of curtains from the open balcony door.

He wanted to do a series in black and white. Timeless and elegant. But with a pop or two of color: striking turquoise or deep ruby or royal purple. Those forest-toned curtains or the pink of roses. Hazel in wide eyes. Leo Whyte was made of color and deserved color.

He wanted to see versions made larger, on display. He wanted to see what he could do with more fabric, more motion, Leo outright looking at the camera—

He wanted to turn the art of the moment into something bigger. In a gallery. Where everybody else could see it all too: the textures, the contrasts, the story in lighting and angles and better focus.

He wanted—

None of that mattered.

Because he couldn’t.

He had his family. He had bills to pay. He had no formal training. He had no reputation aside from the one in his present profession, which wouldn’t translate in any way to an actual art-photography career.

He pictured that, or tried to. Himself laughed out of galleries. No phone calls ever returned. No more jobs that’d at least bring in money, because he’d missed the next big celebrity scoop while trying to make himself someone else. Nothing he could offer, nothing he could do or say.

Never good enough for someone like Leo Whyte.

He wasn’t good enough now. Except that Leo had somehow wanted him. Had chosen him, out of everyone, as worthy of this.

Leo, who had a knack for picking up emotional shifts, said lightly, “My toes’re a bit cold, and I’m terribly fond of my toes, so could we go inside now? I’ve got bacon—American-style bacon, all crunchy, Jason introduced me—and I know people like bacon, so perhaps that’d be fun!” His enthusiasm took the ice down Sam’s spine and layered fluffy blankets atop it, exuberance as reassurance.

Sam lowered his phone. Shook his head, desperately and horribly in love, and knowing he was. “I like your toes too. And yeah, bacon’s a selling point. Stars cheating on diets, all that…”

“Oh, I wasn’t thinking that,” Leo said. “Just that people seem to enjoy the concept of bacon as a food. Come on, I’ll cook it and you can eat it with me!” He even grabbed Sam’s hand. Bringing them both back inside, downstairs, into his kitchen.

Sam kept up with him, and kept Leo’s hand in his, for as long as he could. For every second that he could. Memorizing not just the visual, the way a photograph would, but the shape, the weight, the feel of fingers and palm, long quick bones and knuckles and tantalizing skin.

Sam had to leave. Leo understood as much, rationally.

He did not want to be rational. He wanted to be emotional, over-the-top, impetuous. He wanted to let all his emotions spill over in a giant crashing inarticulate flood.

He smiled at Sam, and got dressed when Sam was mostly done with pictures—a last-minute snapshot or two collected Leo shirtless, jeans on but bare-chested, glimpsed through a half-open door—and pulled on a favorite shirt in an unabashed shade of orange, and walked Sam to the townhouse’s back exit, by the tiny garden. “Thank you for spending the night with me. And sharing midnight breakfast with me. And making me look splendid in photographs. The car’ll meet you at the end of the lane; that’s a private lane, I did tell you, so no one’ll see you.”

He’d won that one, after some negotiation. Sam would in no universe be able to run to a Tube station, make it back to his hotel, pack, and make his flight; even the wait to hail an ordinary cab might’ve been a problem, not to mention the expense. Sam had clearly not liked the proposal, but had also made the argument that a driver picking up a man obviously wearing last night’s suit, at Leo Whyte’s address, would have a lot of information to share with any gossip column. Leo had pointed out that having a reputation for random outrageous requests meant, in fact, that no one would bat an eye: the lane was a shared drive, the driver was a friend, and for all anyone knew Leo wasn’t even home and had simply sent a car to help a neighbor’s guest on his way.

Sam had given in because time and practicality were on Leo’s side—which was not a feeling Leo found especially familiar or comfortable—but had looked unhappy about it. Leo understood. He wouldn’t want to take anything, either.

No, that wasn’t true. He knew himself well enough to admit that he would have. Leo had always liked pampering. Ease. Indulgences, as long as they didn’t harm anyone. He likely _would’ve_ said yes to someone with money offering to make his life easier.

But he wasn’t Sam. And Sam was a good person. A self-sacrificing sort of person. More so than Leo Whyte ever had been.

He said, “I’ve told Royal—yes, his name honestly is Royal, it’s dreadful—he’s all yours for as long as you need him. Wherever you tell him to go. He’s excellent at squeezing through traffic, if somewhat terrifyingly optimistic about the relative sizes of cars. On second thought, perhaps you’d rather borrow my unicycle?”

“Leo.” Sam reached out, took Leo’s hand, swung it. “You’re trying to make this easy.”

“It’s _been_ easy,” Leo said. “It’s been simple. It’s been us.” Of course it hadn’t been, and it wasn’t. Not with their lives. But them together, them coming together, that _had_ been, he thought.

In the next second he realized that his phrasing might be taken otherwise: as dismissive, as casual. He had not meant that at all. And a slice of sunbeam, barely risen, cut across his eyes.

“It has,” Sam said. “Because you make the world that way. You have _fun_ , Leo. You _like_ fish-shaped pillows and shirts in the worst kind of orange and having adventures, and I—oh, hell. How can I leave? How can I just walk away from you, when you’re standing there smiling at me?”

“Because,” Leo said, smile affixed in place, hoping the understanding was visible too, “you love your family. And you need to get back to them, and to support them.” With photographs of me, he did not say, to sell at the best price you can.

No point in saying it. They both knew. A night, an interlude, and a bargain. He regretted none of it. Not a single drop. He never would.

“And you’d tell me to go, and you’d never tell me to stay, and I can’t—” Sam’s jaw clenched. One hand swept up, touched Leo’s cheek, skimmed under eyelashes. “You’re sad.”

“I’m not. I never am. Or if I am I’ll go and roll around in rose petals on my bedroom floor. I know someone who knows a florist, you know.”

“Fuck _this_ ,” Sam said. “I can’t go. You’re hurting and I can’t leave you.” He sounded so fierce, so angry: ready to fight a whole universe if it’d made Leo sad. “Tell me how to help.”

“Please don’t,” Leo said. “Don’t—don’t make me responsible for that. For making you choose. I can’t do that.”

“But I—” Sam shut both eyes, exhaled, opened them. “Okay. Okay, how about this. I’ll go. But I don’t want you to be alone. I want to be here. I want to be here for you and rose petals and bacon. I know that’s impossible, I know someone like you wouldn’t want—but I can’t not ask. If I give you my number—”

“Yes,” Leo said, breathless and immediate. “Yes, that. Please do that.” A feeling like reprieve hit his bones, standing in his doorway in morning mist; he did not lose balance because he still had Sam’s hands on him, keeping him steady.

“You said yes…?”

That was a question. But it didn’t need to be. And when their eyes met, energy twirled all the way down to Leo’s toes.

He did a tiny hop in place on the balls of his feet, unable to contain it. “Yes. Here, take my phone, put your number in—”

Sam took the phone. Stopped to share a small headshake with it, smiling.

“What?”

“You. The way you just…give me things. Handed right over. I just…how’re you real?”

“Maybe I’m not.” Leo widened eyes dramatically at him. “Maybe I’m a ghost. You’ve spent the night with a ghost. Like one of those old stories out of folklore. Urban legend. Tomorrow you’ll find out this house was never here, or I’ve had a black ribbon keeping my head tied on the whole time, or something.”

“There’s a flaw in your logic,” Sam informed him calmly, “I can touch your neck right now,” and did, hand settling big and firm and tanned over Leo’s skin. His other hand finished putting himself into Leo’s phone, with impressive coordination. “I like you being not dead, thanks.”

“Oh, well. I suppose I’ll have to be alive for you, then.”

“I’m good with that,” Sam said, and his hand tightened on the nape of Leo’s neck, just for a second. “You text me, okay? Let me know…how your interviews go. Your press. Or just how you’re feeling. What you’re up to. Anything you want to say. I’m listening.”

“Sam,” Leo said. He hadn’t exactly meant to. Only feeling the name on the tip of his tongue. “Are we…what are we? Are we…friends? More? Something?”

Sam gave him a helpless shrug, clearly equally at sea in the fog. Then stepped in close and kissed him: an almost rough frantic brush of a kiss, a collision of lips. “We’re…something, Leo Whyte. Hell if I know what. But I want to be here, and I want to talk to you, and…we’ll see, all right? We’ll just…see what happens.”

“I can do that,” Leo said. “I’m good at improvising.” He could be. He was.

“You’re amazing,” Sam said, “now go get ready for your interviews,” and kissed him quickly again, and left without looking back: a sturdy dark-haired American shape in an ill-fitted suit amid diamond-etched mist, heading down a private lane for a car and an airport and a faraway destination.

Leo, who could never resist a tempting idea, and who still had his phone screen showing Sam’s number, promptly texted, while watching him go, _I like your shoulders._

_I like you, Leo._

_How’d you know this was me?_

_Seriously?_

_I might’ve been someone else deciding to text just this second! Or perhaps a sudden attack of magpies stole my phone and decided to compliment you. They do that sort of thing, you know. Just because you’ve never seen them doesn’t mean they don’t._

Sam started typing, stopped, started over. He’d nearly reached the corner; he paused to wave, though at the end of the lane the gesture was small. _In that case, tell the magpies thanks but I’m not interested, I’ve got someone pretty awesome in my life already._

_Really? Who?_

Sam did the start-and-stop typing again. Then: _You know I mean you, right, and that’s not a real question?_

Leo stared at the text. Sunshine streaked his vision. He did know, and he didn’t. He’d thought so, but he’d thought Sam was joking; he’d been teasing back. He wasn’t _in Sam’s life_. He wasn’t that important—

Was he?

Sam, no doubt because Leo hadn’t answered, asked, _Leo? Still there? Yes, I mean you_. Followed, a second later, by _Don’t make me come punch some magpies until they give back your phone_.

Leo’s mouth made a sound, which was an astounded gut-punch laughter-bubble of sound; he took a step back, leaned against his door-frame, put a hand over his mouth so the laughter wouldn’t become a sob, and let the morning slide home into his chest like an arrow.

_I’m here. No avian assault and battery required. Thank you, though. Not only for the offer._

_Any time. You just say when. Gotta run, though, your car’s here. Thanks again._

_It was that or my unicycle, and I expect this option’s easier with luggage!_

Sam sent him a smiley face, which Leo assumed meant an end to conversation; he stepped back inside, shut his door, gazed down at the screen.

He’d not put on a jacket yet. His arms were chilly under summertime orange fabric. He felt cold, or warm, or confused. Did confusion manifest in perplexed bodily temperatures?

His kitchen hadn’t changed—small and bright, white and blue and yellow and silver, holding traces of bacon and sweet strong tea—but it felt different. Emptier, or larger: having known Sam’s shape, Sam’s laughter, next to that cupboard. Holding a plate. Leaning elbows on a countertop.

His backside ached slightly. Not badly. He wouldn’t want to attempt sitting down on hard surfaces, but he rather liked the sensation. He’d done this. He’d had Sam inside him. He’d felt all that.

He _had_ had Sam inside him. Good god.

Standing in his kitchen, surrounded by sunny color and the memories of large skillful tanned hands, Leo took a deep breath, let it out. He felt so much, too much: his jeans against his skin, the softness of a favorite shirt, the brittleness of the early light. Sam had left, would be on the way home, would in all likelihood never be in the same place as Leo Whyte again. Or if so would be taking pictures, pressed close amid the throng.

But, Leo thought. But I have his phone number. We talked about magpies. He said we’ll see what happens. We’re something. Not nothing. We’ll find out together.

And he held onto his phone, and found himself smiling.

Sam, sitting in a too-small aisle seat and pretending not to notice the thumps of a child kicking his chair, flipped through photos. Found himself touching the phone’s screen with reverence, with pleasure. With whatever emotion kicked his heart into a somersault and his mouth into a smile, unplanned.

Leo Whyte. Laughing, shirtless, barefoot, lean movie-star muscle wrapped up in blue and gold brocade or satin sheets or low-rise jeans or nothing at all. Frying bacon, making tea, trusting Sam to find plates and open cupboards and trail fingers over naked skin.

The large man beside him in the airplane’s center seat shifted position. Rolled more Sam’s direction. Snored loudly.

Leo Whyte likely flew first class. Or on a private jet. Or something. Sam tried to stretch out a leg and failed comprehensively.

Leo existed in that colorful townhouse, that world of midnight champagne brunches and sequins and silver-screen stories. Bringing characters to life, on a soundstage or in a glamorous international location. Making everyone laugh and cry and care.

That mattered—that mattered so much—and it was a gift, a talent, not one everyone had. Leo deserved the limousines and the red carpets and the suit that’d fit him like a glove at the premiere, sunrise pink standing out amid blues and blacks because Leo Whyte was never afraid to put on a show.

Leo had called the car and driver for him, that morning. Which had solved the immediate problem—and he really wouldn’t’ve made his flight without Royal’s frightening skill at squeezing into nonexistent traffic openings—but left a sharper sour note amid memories of sugar and toast and tea.

Leo had money. Undeniable. Not the way, say, Colby Kent had money, but then again Colby Kent came from a background that included national poet laureates, distantly-related English aristocratic titles, and a history of senators and ambassadors and political advisors on the American side. Leo wasn’t Colby, but most people weren’t.

Leo also wasn’t Sam himself, and had almost certainly never pretended to not be hungry in order to give three younger siblings the last serving of macaroni and cheese. That’d been around the darkest couple months, when he hadn’t known what to do or how to rescue them all. He’d known it could’ve been worse—even then they had the house, and he’d always managed to feed Carlos and the twins and usually himself, even if that meant peanut-butter sandwiches for weeks, partly because of the money and partly because he’d been a college student with the kind of cooking skills that could about handle ramen noodles or bean burritos. He’d learned to do better, sort of.

He had money now, sort of. Irregular—whenever he had something juicy and got paid—and not exactly reliable, but in nicely large amounts, because he was good at angles and focus and getting a shot, and editors and publishers knew he was. He didn’t worry too much if the twins needed new pairs of shoes, and he could afford to rent a suit—a terrible one, okay, sure—for a movie premiere, and he could wander into his favorite bar and have a drink once in a while, the good whisky, even. The one he’d shared with Leo, because he’d wanted to.

He was doing okay. Not amazing, but okay. He believed that.

He knew, though, that that life—his life, down on the ground with reality—was nowhere near Leo Whyte’s fantasy world. A whole other realm, up there. With private drivers and film-location travel and buying a unicycle just to learn to ride it. Full of personal stylists and movie scripts and designer fashion. Secure in the knowledge that just about anything could be had for the asking.

He tried to stretch his leg out again, failed again, swiped through pictures. Leo’s eyes stood out against the silver of the morning mist, hazel as elf-groves.

He hadn’t wanted Leo to have to call a driver. To spend money. Felt cheaper somehow. Like they’d slept together and Leo had needed to pay, after.

He also knew the objection was partly his insecurity talking. That one hadn’t even been a big favor. Trivial. Like buying another sparkly pillow or deciding on a marginally more expensive blend of tea. Leo could afford it easily, already paid drivers to do their job, and had made valid points about practicality.

His head hurt slightly. The air was dry, or maybe his eyes were. He looked at Leo, caught out of time on his phone: the picture that’d been his favorite. Leo with hands wrapped around a teacup, gazing down into it; Leo with pale sunshine on a cheekbone, smile mischievous but small, maybe reminded of a past joke or on-set prank but only sharing the thought with his tea, paradoxically pensive and playful on his balcony in the morning.

The flight attendant’s voice said, “Oh, that’s a gorgeous picture!” and Sam jumped, nearly dropped his phone, fumbled, caught it. He managed, “Thanks.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to sneak up on you! You looked so happy, just smiling at him. Is that your boyfriend?” She beamed at him, making small talk, chattering and perky. “And would you like something to drink?”

“He’s…” What? What word would be enough to sum up Leo Whyte? “A friend. Um. Coffee? Would be great. Thanks.”

She apologized again for startling him, blonde curls bouncing above her uniform, and got him coffee. The bulk in the center seat snored more. The woman at the window ignored everyone, headphones on, and buried herself in what looked like a mystery novel. The child behind him had stopped kicking his seat, so that was promising.

The coffee wasn’t great. He’d had worse. He sipped it gingerly.

He hoped Leo was smiling. Feeling wonderful. Not too sore. No regrets. Leo had said not—had talked about very rarely regretting anything, in fact—but they’d done so much, and Leo had never done _any_ of it before, had never even kissed a man until Sam, and now—

God, he _hoped_ Leo wouldn’t regret it.

He never would. No matter what happened next, he’d have the memory. He’d fold the love-letter of it up carefully and tuck it away and pull it out sometimes to gaze at, when he needed to smile. Because it had been a love-letter, on his side. For Leo. For that light, that delight.

He wanted to talk to Leo again. He wanted to hear how the afternoon press events went. He wanted to know what silly jokes Leo might’ve made in an interview, and what eyewatering color of shirt he’d chosen to wear on camera, and whether someone’d noticed that Leo’s toes and fingertips sometimes needed warming up, and if so what they’d done about thick socks and gloves or hot beverages to hold.

He missed Leo. He hadn’t ever known he could miss someone so powerfully. Not after a single night and morning. But his bones ached with the entire lack of English-heritage champagne-bubble enthusiasm beside him. His body knew how Leo felt, tasted, fit around him.

He’d land in a few hours. He’d see his family. He’d get to hug the twins and talk to Carlos and thank their neighbors for keeping an eye out. He’d sleep in his own bed for a couple of days before going to Atlanta to stalk a superhero film set and cast-and-crew hotel.

He’d share photographs of Leo Whyte with Jameson and a few others, depending on exclusivity and price. He’d see _his_ Leo spread out across tabloid pages for money. As expected. As Leo also expected.

He thought that maybe if he sent a message just to say, _We’re over the ocean and I thought about your sparkly fish-shaped pillow and I thought you would make a good merman,_ Leo would laugh and come up with something wonderfully weird and instantly clever to say right back, something imaginative about growing kelp or herding clownfish or organizing a protect-the-oceans charity Shakespeare reading; Sam did know about the kitten adoption and children’s hospital and youth theater events.

He did not have in-flight internet, not having paid for it. He would’ve texted Leo, though. He wanted to.

He could text Leo Whyte. Because Leo wanted him to. Because he was allowed to. He’d been given that. Whatever they were to each other, whatever they’d been or might be, they were something. Together.

He could try sending a message with some thoughts about mermen and sparkly fish-shaped pillows after they landed. Leo would be happy, he thought, if he did. He liked that idea.


	5. connections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leo asks for help from friends. Colby has an idea. Sam and Leo have a very fun phone call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter would've been up earlier, except it grew a phone sex scene. I've had Leo's conversation with Colby and Jason written for *ages* - that was one of the first parts I wrote! And then, well...things happened.
> 
> Also, Leo has an interesting kink or two! I didn't exactly plan that, but it'll be fun...

Leo, up far earlier than usual, found himself with a great deal of time to kill before the afternoon press circus over at the historic Langman Hotel, and therefore wandered around his house for a while, needing to be in motion.

He considered opening his front door and waving to anyone present. He wasn’t Colby, but he wasn’t entirely uninteresting, either, and there’d be at least two or three paparazzi camping out the morning after a premiere and an afterparty. But thinking about the camera-carrying horde made him think about Sam, and he didn’t want to be photographed by anyone but Sam at this precise moment.

He truly didn’t. He felt like himself, and not like himself. Like some new version of himself. Turned inside-out and shaken _and_ stirred.

He found himself in his bedroom. He regarded his bed, with new resplendent memories of Sam. He did not make his bed, and it did not mind.

He peeked into his bathroom and stared at his shower: at the knowledge of Sam having stood there, having helped scrub his back, having been real.

He got fuzzy polka-dotted socks out of a drawer and went downstairs, keeping the curtains drawn. He made more tea, the autopilot usual English Breakfast blend—he had more exciting varieties, but his mother always had English Breakfast in the mornings, and Leo’s head associated it with coziness and routine—and put sugar in it.

He found his laptop and opened his email, sitting cross-legged on his sofa with a mug in one hand, and contemplated emails from his agent, press tour schedules, interview requests, invitations to a convention or two.

He generally liked conventions. He liked hugging fans and hearing what they had to say about his characters, particularly some of the most inventive theories about how Del the villainous space wizard might return from being trapped in a time vortex. Leo knew that the minds behind that particular British-institution science fiction show did indeed want him back; the writers were working on it, and he’d happily don over-the-top swooping robes and headgear again and run around menacing time and space.

He wondered whether Sam had ever seen any of his episodes. Sam liked science fiction, right? At least the children’s cartoon version.

He wondered whether any of those conventions requesting his presence might take place in or near Las Vegas. He spent some time looking up science-fiction fan gatherings, and then the prices of luxury hotels in Vegas. Ones with large plush beds.

He _wanted_ to see Sam again. He wanted more. He wanted so many things that they got into his chest and stomach and throat and tangled up there.

Sunshine, now fully present and chasing off fog, snuck through curtains to flood across his laptop, his knee, his sofa.

Sam had liked his sofa. His decorating sense. His accents of color, sequins, comfort.

He’d had sex with Sam. Splendid, incandescent, rhapsodic sex. He’d had sex with a man, and liked it, and been aroused by the feel and taste and rush of their bodies fitting together.

He was almost certainly not straight, he concluded. Or not exclusively straight. Not that he’d thought he was. Or at least he hadn’t been opposed to the _idea_ of not being straight. He simply…hadn’t thought about it much. Until now. When he had to look his sexuality in the face. As it were.

Sam had a very lovely face. Very kissable.

He said to his laptop, experimentally, “I might be gay?” His laptop shrugged back, electronic support of whatever identity Leo chose to explore.

He drummed fingers beside the keys. “You’re no help. But thanks.”

So, he thought. What would help? Or, specifically, who?

He eyed his phone. He picked it up, tossing it from hand to hand.

Twenty minutes later, standing outside Colby’s building, he texted _Have you got clothing on yet?_ that direction. The neighborhood, leafy and literary and museum-decorated, widened eyes at Leo Whyte’s lime-green bomber jacket in bemused but well-mannered welcome. Leo had always thought Colby Kent _would_ live someplace exactly like this: quiet and quietly full of quirky architectural detail and tidbits of history, discreetly expensive without showing off, unless one counted having _that_ many books as showing off.

He’d evaded paparazzi eyeballs successfully, having taken the same exit strategy he’d offered to Sam; he’d told Carolyn, his own driver, to go and have the rest of the day off, since he’d no idea how long he’d be, and he could get a ride over to the press event with Colby and Jason if necessary. The vultures and their cameras were not permitted outside Colby’s building; devoted security saw to that. He knew there’d be some random gossip items—Leo Whyte Visits Gay Co-Stars Post-Premiere! Potential Polyamory?—but that much was unavoidable, and anyway Colby and Jason would be entertained by the rumors.

Colby answered his text with _We’re perfectly decent at the moment, if you were serious about dropping by for brunch! Tell us when to expect you_.

This time Leo called instead of texting. “About that…”

An upper-floor window flew open in white-sashed amazement. Colby’s head popped out, hair standing up in a way that suggested the recent presence of a large hand petting dark brown waves. “Leo? You haven’t learned to teleport, have you? Can you teach me? I’d love to be able to escape when—oh, dear, are you quite all right?”

“I don’t know!” Leo yelled up. “I might need your help!” He tried to make the words jocular, cavalier, lacking teeth; he was entirely fine, only wanting a bit of assistance, nothing for Colby to fret over. No impositions.

“Anything we can do,” Colby announced instantly, “yes, of course, come on up, straight away,” and vanished from the window.

A yes. Just like that. With sincerity. Leo, standing in front of Colby’s building with sunshine laying golden bars across his shoulders, took a second to understand the shift of weight. A hint at lightness, an astonishment of comprehension.

He’d mentioned needing help. Colby had offered.

Maybe it could be just that simple. Maybe he’d only ever needed to ask.

He took stairs two at a time, not wanting to wait for the lift. His toes felt lighter. Must be some gold sneaking in there too.

Colby’s flat lounged over the two topmost floors—the lower flat was currently occupied by a couple of those security-guard foothills, Sara and Leslie, who _were_ in fact a couple and adored Colby Kent—and stretched out across historic building-supports with tranquil equanimity. Leo had just lifted a hand to knock when the door flew wide; Jason, occupying most of the world simply by existing, invited, “Hey, Leo, come on in.” His voice dusted antique English neighborhoods with laid-back California sun, and his shoulders filled up every available inch, as usual. “Colby’s getting dressed.”

“I’m dressed!” Colby flew down the last few stairs and landed in the embrace of one of Jason’s arms. He was indeed dressed, in neat grey trousers and a pale pink shirt under a too-large rainbow-patterned knit cardigan, and managed to transform this collection of color into the next fashion trend just by glowing at the world. His hair fluffed up in defiance of the hand attempting to smooth it. “Leo, you said you needed help, we’re here, what can we do?”

“You said you were decent,” Leo pointed out, kicking shoes off in the entryway. “Not naked. Was naked happening? Because I can come back later.” He would. Colby and Jason had had a hard enough time falling into each other’s orbit; Colby even now did not always have good days, and they’d have the clamor of the press round later too. “Unless there’s collective mutual naked, in which case I’m comfortable if you are. Though that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Colby and Jason looked at each other, then at him, and trailed him out to the living room, which folded tall built-in bookshelves and sweeping windows and long blue curtains around them. Colby and Jason decorated like interior designers with a joint unconcealed love of fantasy maps and steampunk lamps and literature about elves and airships; the flat mingled classic elegance and whimsical accents and Colby’s rather apologetic upper-class knowledge of wine into Jason’s Wizards & Wyverns game manuals and general tidiness, along with some take-out menus for really _good_ Italian places stuck to a pin-board, and a second refrigerator just for holding unusual craft beer and home-brewed mead.

Leo flopped down on their sofa, which embraced its purpose enthusiastically, and announced, “I’m having a moment of distress. Support me.”

“Oh dear.” Colby perched on a sofa-arm, over decorative brass studs and navy-blue curves. Jason took the chair next to him. “Distress about what? I know you’re marvelous with press, so it can’t be this afternoon’s obligations, unless it is, if there’s something you don’t want to have to talk about. And I know it can’t be our movie; you’re splendid in it, which you know, and the premiere went excellently. Except—did it, for you? You left so promptly. And you weren’t at any of the afterparties. Not that we made more than a brief appearance either, but I did talk to Jill this morning. Were you feeling all right?”

Colby Kent, Leo considered with affection, would never use one word when twenty would do. “I don’t know. Yes. No. Absolutely yes. Orgasmically all right. But then that’s the problem. Maybe I’m not.”

“Er…” Colby slid down from the sofa-arm to a cushion, inching closer. Jason watched him with the eyes of a royal bodyguard on the brink of hauling his prince back from peril. “You went home with—with someone, is that it? And now you’re here…oh, Leo. Are you hurt? Do you need us to call someone? Or would you like to talk? You don’t seem terribly upset…”

“I’m not hurt! I’m fine.” Mostly to make Colby feel better, he melodramatically flung the back of a wrist against his forehead, tipped his head back, and intoned, “I’m simply overwrought, darling,” which made Colby laugh and Jason snort. Leo dropped the hand and sat up more and said, “The person I went home with was a Sam. I mean a man. I mean Sam. I mean my Sam.”

“Oh,” Colby said. “Your…your photographer.” That was polite; they all recalled first meeting Sam and Sam’s camera. “He did come to the premiere, then. Did he like _Steadfast_?”

“Loved it. You, the writing, the setting, the art design…me, obviously…”

“No,” Jason put in, low and firm. “Not obvious. Not that you’re not fantastic, you are, but you say it like you don’t think it matters.”

Leo shrugged at him. “It’s your movie. You and Colby.”

Jason got a small line between dark thick eyebrows. “Leo, you know it wouldn’t be the same without you, right?”

“My _point_ is,” Leo said, “I had all sorts of sex with a very male person, for the first time ever, last night—and also this morning—and I’m suddenly having a lot of emotions, and you two have definitely also had the sex with men, including whatever you were doing that meant Colby needed to get dressed, and you know about this type of thing, and please help.”

“Er,” Colby said again, “what is it, precisely, you’d like our help…with?”

“I don’t know! Me, life, being a celebrity and being gay, apparently. Got any sex tips?”

Jason rumbled, “Yes. Go back to the being gay part.”

“That’s the first time I’ve said that.” Leo stared at their rug. Plush and shaggy and blue with little white flecks, it stared back. He wiggled green-striped sock-toes in it.

Maybe if he kept looking at his toes he wouldn’t have to think. He liked not thinking. “Out loud, I mean. To anyone. I’m not even sure I _am_. I suppose what I’m asking is…well, you know I’ve dated women, and I enjoyed that…as far as I’m aware they also enjoyed that, I get on with all my exes, we’re on good terms…and now there’s this…am I in fact gay now? Or some sort of…bisexual sort of word?”

Colby and Jason traded glances. Jason raised eyebrows Leo’s direction. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I kinda already thought you were. Bi, I mean. With the flirting, the comments…I know Jill’s casting preferences for _Steadfast_ were, well…us, for one…and you got all annoyed when I said you weren’t Colby’s type, that time. Unless those were all just you making jokes.”

“ _I_ always thought those were just me making jokes! Or…maybe not. I mean, I do like Matt Grant’s mouth, that was true when I said it, it’s a delicious-looking mouth. And Colby’s adorable, so who _wouldn’t_ —”

“Thank you for that.”

“—and then Sam was so—he’s so—he was nothing like I expected, and everything that I wanted to say yes to, and I think I like him, not just the sex, I actually like being _with_ him, but I don’t even _know_ him. I met him for the second time literally a day ago. I’m very confused.”

Colby and Jason did some more silent communing. Jason asked, “You had sex with him, you said?”

“I definitely did that.” Inarguably so. Wonderfully so. Repeatedly so.

“You said you were confused. But you did it because you wanted to, right? He asked whether you wanted to? And it was good?” Jason, Leo noticed, had a hand holding Colby’s.

He knew why Jason would be the one to ask that. Not all the details—Colby never had talked about his ex-boyfriend publicly, nor what’d happened the night that’d all finally come crashing down—but Leo’d seen the difference. The Colby Kent he’d first met, back during the filming of _The Far Cry of Guns_ , had been young and hopeful and eager to please, self-deprecating and anxious about getting everything right but irrepressibly bubbly. The Colby he’d met several years later at the auditions for _Steadfast_ had grown thinner and quieter, and flinched away from even friendly touch.

Leo had never previously wanted to hit anyone in anger, had no clue how he’d even go about it in non-filming life, and nevertheless to this day imagined putting his fist into the face of the man who’d done that. He would’ve tried, if Colby’d ever indicated any desire for revenge.

Everything had changed again when Jason Mirelli had gently bought cinnamon bagels and asked permission before touching Colby, on set and off, with those large callused action-hero hands.

Colby looked at Jason as if perpetually amazed that such kindness had landed in his life. Jason looked at Colby the exact same way, only maybe with even more sunshiney awe, Leo decided.

He said, “I absolutely wanted to. He did ask. I said yes. And it was spectacular.” It had been. And he wanted to reassure Colby, and by extension Jason’s muscles. “I would like to do it more. But I do still quite like women. Or I think I still do. Should I find a friend who’d be willing to test the hypothesis? We didn’t say anything about being exclusive. Except I don’t want to have sex with anyone else at the moment, even if she is a friend. I do want to have more spectacular sex with Sam. And only Sam. _Am_ I properly gay, then? Or is this some sort of thirty-three-year-old bisexuality crisis? Should I feel awakened or enlightened?”

“Do you?” Colby inquired.

“I don’t know. Should I have slept with _you_ , ages ago, to help figure it all out? Except your type is human Mount Everests and I wouldn’t’ve known what I was doing, so it likely wouldn’t’ve worked at all and I’d’ve ended up thinking I was in fact straight.”

Colby was outright laughing now.

Jason, with a hint of protectiveness but also pleasure because Colby was laughing, rumbled, “You’re still not his type. And being bisexual doesn’t have to be a crisis. I should know.”

“It rather feels as if I’m having one,” Leo pointed out dolefully. “Shouldn’t I at least be allowed one graceful swoon onto a fainting couch? Colby, do you own a fainting couch? If not, can I buy you one so that I can bisexually swoon onto it?”

“Hmm,” Colby said. “I’m afraid this is a bit outside my area of expertise, given that I’ve been very much attracted to only one option, and by one option I mean men, ever since I, well, _could_ be attracted. But I can leave you in Jason’s brilliant and capable hands and go and make French toast if you’d like.”

Leo perked up. “With your brandy whipped cream?”

Colby gave him the smile that only a few people, certainly not red-carpet interviewers, got to see. “Anything for you.” Getting up, he touched Leo’s shoulder, offered a fleeting grip, a squeeze. That gesture, given in defiance of a scarred and healing past, spoke whole monologues about love, and just about shattered Leo’s heart with gladness for his friend.

To Jason, therefore, he overexaggerated pathetically, “Help me.”

“I think you’re doing okay,” Jason said. “You like him, you said. And from what you’ve told us, he seems like he’s being good to you.”

“He is. He’s very…well, he’s…experienced. But nice! Very nice. I felt…all sorts of things. Good things! I mean the things he got me to feel. Inside. But also with my hands. There was definite feeling of things. It’s just…I like how he felt. But I also like women. I like breasts. Theoretically I do. What if I’ve forgotten how to like breasts?”

Jason performed the most dramatic eye-roll Leo’d ever seen from a mountain. “You do know what bisexual means, right? Or we could maybe say pan, but let’s not confuse your brain more.”

Leo stuck his tongue out at Jason, flopped backwards on the marvelously comfortable sofa, grabbed a convenient throw pillow, shoved it over his face, and said, “Argh argh _argh_ ,” with great force into it.

“Don’t tease him too much!” Colby called over from the kitchen. “His brain’s clearly having a moment of difficulty. Leo, cinnamon and pear sauce all right?”

“I love you as much as your pet Hercules will let me!” Leo yelled back, still under the pillow.

“Okay, look, seriously.” Jason waited until Leo tossed the pillow aside and pushed himself up on elbows to listen, then went on. “There’s no secret test or entrance exam or seal of sexuality approval or whatever. If that’s what you feel, and that’s how you want to identify, then you are. And it’s okay if you don’t know right away, or if you need a while to figure it out.”

“Ugh,” Leo told him. “Why’d you have to make it sound so reasonable?”

“Because it should be.”

“All of us know it isn’t.”

“Trust me, I know.” Jason gave him a sympathetic shrug. Muscles performed a brief continental drift. Leo spared a moment of empathy for Jason’s shirtsleeves. “I knew about me back in, um, junior year of high school. I sort of assumed I was straight, I went out with girls, and if I ever had other thoughts, I didn’t think about them. If that makes sense. And then I ended up tutoring Dustin Pearce in history, and I just remember looking up and looking over at him and right in the middle of the Civil War I couldn’t help noticing the color of his eyes, the gold in his eyelashes, the way he grinned at me when I said something that made history make sense, and I kinda went, oh shit, y’know?”

“And you, what, asked him to the big dance and made a fairytale night of it?”

“Hell no. I _liked_ being on the wrestling team, being cool with everybody, having friends. Couldn’t say anything and make it all weird.” Jason sighed. “When I did publicly come out as bi…and that wasn’t until after the third John Kill movie, when I got so sick of hiding, and I was dating a guy I really liked, and I just thought, fuck it, why not…it did get weird. I won’t say it didn’t. Not exactly outright backlash, but a lot of speculation, a lot of jokes, fewer roles because I just wasn’t quite what they were looking for…” His tone turned remembered rejection into wryness. “Plus the guy in question broke up with me over rumors about me and an ex-girlfriend getting back together, so that was fun.”

“Everything’s a story,” Leo said. “Certainly John Kill being into men was. I remember that. The media had a field day.” And he himself had been in bed with a photographer the previous night. Not even a respectable photographer. The tabloid kind. The shrieking scandal sheet kind.

He couldn’t quite look at Jason.

Colby reappeared, buried behind enough food to sustain an entire film production. Brandy-infused homemade whipped cream and cinnamon poached pears drifted in golden serenity above richly-browned French toast. American-style bacon had also happened, which made Leo want to laugh. So had coffee, with tiny accompanying pots of cream and sugar. “Is that enough, or should I whip up some eggs and plain toast as well?”

“Baby,” Jason said, “cream puff, love of my life, Colby, sit down. Leo doesn’t need you to feed him an entire restaurant menu.”

“Leo might,” Leo protested. “Have you seen what he can do with a quiche? Of course you have. You live with him. Which is unfair to the rest of us. Oh god, Colby, you’re a wizard.” The last came out around a mouthful of pear and French toast and whipped cream.

“If I were a wizard,” Colby said, amused, “my chocolate soufflés would always come out flawless. I can promise you they don’t. Jason knows.”

“They tasted great,” Jason countered, stabbing a pear with barbarian-warrior muscular precision, “no matter what they looked like. Anyway the second round came out perfect. Look, Leo, I’m not saying it’s gonna be easy. But it can also be awesome. Being yourself, owning that. And we’re here for you.”

“I know you’re here.” Leo devoured another cloud-like bite of heaven. “Also I might never leave your flat, just so you know. Moving in. Eating all your food.”

“I do rather wonder what a Seal of Sexuality Approval would look like.” Colby poured cream into coffee, watched the swirl with the delight of a Renaissance polymath contemplating art, finally took a sip. “It would simply say we approve of everyone, of course. No one left out. And there’d be lots of rainbows. And something shimmery. Leo, as Jason said, it’s all right to not have a label, or simply to not know yet. I did, when I was fairly young, but that’s not a guarantee of anything at all working out; clearly so, considering my personal terrible choices in men before Jason. So you’re perhaps better off.”

Leo tried to say something about Colby’s taste in men, was busy basking in a mouthful of brandied pear and sugar, and just pointed at Colby’s hair instead.

Colby blinked at him, baffled.

“Mmmph,” Leo said, and swallowed. “You deserve to have _all_ the sex hair.”

“My…hair?” Colby put a hand up to touch a stray wave. “Oh, dear. How bad is it?”

“I love your hair,” Jason said.

“That’s not a no,” Leo pointed out. “You _were_ totally having the sex before I got here. Um. Sorry about that.”

Colby set down the coffee.

“I mean, I can leave,” Leo said. A final bite of pear shuffled itself away from his fork, abashed on his behalf. “You really _have_ helped. Both of you.” True.

“Leo.” Jason did the worried heroic eyebrows again. “It’s not a problem. We mean that.”

“I could get out of your way and let you get ready for the hordes, over at the hotel. I don’t mind.”

“How long’ve we known each other?” Colby said. “Since back whenever we did _Guns_ , not that we shared all that many scenes…still, it’s been a decent amount of time. And you were such fun to be around when we did press. I remember that, you know. I was awfully new to this, and you’d been working steadily for at least a few years by then, and you made people laugh and enjoy themselves even during the longest days. I always admired that.”

“You _what_?” Leo said. “Oh dear god. Colby…no, sorry, go back to the part where _you_ admired _me_. Say it again.”

Colby’s eyes were steady, holding his. “I will if you want. Having you around was important—you _are_ important. So thank you for that. I should’ve told you that much earlier, I suspect. I’m sorry.”

Jason, at that last, cocked an eyebrow Colby’s direction. Colby scrunched up that nose at him. “Yes, all right, but I’m allowed to say it when I’m genuinely in the wrong. And I am. Leo, we’re here for whatever you need. Just say the word. Whatever you want.”

Leo, perplexed by generosity, opened his mouth, shut it, tried for refuge in flippancy. “Such a dangerous offer…what if I ask you for a person-sized lemon tart or a hand-knitted scarf or a castle…Jason, help. He’s apologizing to me. Not that I don’t love it, but, honestly. Him. _Me_.”

“I don’t in fact know how to knit,” Colby mused, momentarily thoughtful. “I could learn. I might be able to acquire the castle, at least for a weekend.”

“Colby,” Jason said, “you remember what we said. And you agreed. We’ll talk about it later. But, Leo, he’s right about us being here for you. What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know!” Leo picked up a piece of bacon and stabbed it at him. “I don’t know. I want—I want to help him. Sam. I want to kiss him. I want him to not do what he does for a living, and I know he’s good at it, and I want to meet his family, and I want to see him smile when I buy another pillow shaped like a fish, and I want to fall asleep feeling him next to me again. I want to tell my parents about him, which means I have to tell them I’m…something. Whatever I am. But I want all of that. If he does. I don’t know what he wants.” He wobbled the bacon around futilely. “I want him to be happy. What was it Colby agreed to, again?”

“That one’s rather an ongoing order,” Colby said, so mildly that the word didn’t register for a moment. “I’m trying to work on what Jason calls the unnecessary sort of apologies. And our therapist understands kink and power dynamics and the way orders sometimes help me remember, because I want to listen. But that doesn’t mean _never_ apologizing, and I do want to show you I mean it. The castle might be a bit over the top, but then again I’m fairly sure it’d only take a phone call or two…”

“I don’t need a castle!”

“No, I expect not.” Colby looked a bit rueful for a second. “Though I’d love to attempt to cook a medieval banquet sometime…no, not now. There are really only two important questions, right now, aren’t there?”

“Um,” Leo said. “Are there?”

“Yes.” Colby sipped coffee, set the mug down, folded up one leg and tucked arms around his knee, quietly flexible and insightful as a stray bit of telepathy. The extra-blue stripe around those famous irises held hard-won wisdom and delight and care for all the bruised pieces of this room, this world, this story. “You _don’t_ need to have everything sorted out in an instant. I certainly didn’t. I still haven’t. Though we do keep trying.” His glance at Jason spoke volumes: whole movie scripts played out in pain and yearning and the happily-ever-after embrace of joy.

Jason put a big arm around Colby’s shoulders and nestled him back into being cuddled. Colby went on, “First, do you care about him? You don’t have to give it a name, not yet. But he matters to you?”

“Yes,” Leo said, and felt the word in his throat, on his tongue, like a sob or a burst of sugar or a splash of molten caramel. Hot and sweet to the point of searing, it occupied all his senses. “Yes.”

“All right, then. Second, you said you believe he’s a good person. And you want to help. Even if nothing more ever happens—if he wants to simply be friends, not that I think that’s true, I think you’re lovable and he clearly cares for you, but hypothetically speaking—would you still want to help? To do something? To offer, I mean, not to swoop in and solve everything. Life rarely works that way, I’ve found. But to have…perhaps a suggestion. That he could accept, or not.”

A suggestion? What suggestion? Leo accidentally snapped the bacon in half, and said it aloud. “What suggestion?”

“I’m still thinking about it.” Colby batted eyelashes at him. “Answer the question.”

“Yes,” Leo said again, answer immediate and instinctive; and then he thought about it for a second, and the pain of it scratched like an echo of breaking in his chest. He knew why Colby would ask; the bittersweetness blossomed under his ribs, and it felt like nothing he’d ever quite known before, all complicated and tangled up with want and sacrifice and hurt and desire, and he’d never be the same. He welcomed the feeling. “Yes. He’s worth helping.”

“And you wouldn’t mind me having an idea? Oh, sorry, three questions.”

Jason laughed. “I’ll spank you later.”

“What—oh. Drat. I didn’t even mean to. Er…sorry?” That one was deliberate, and made Jason laugh even more, arms securely around his other half, a kiss nuzzled into Colby’s hair.

“Yes, fine,” Colby said to his human shield-wall, and patted Jason’s arm. “Leo?” Morning sunlight brushed his cheekbone, his hair, with pale citrine. All that alert intent focus landed on Leo’s face and waited for an answer, with patience, without hurry.

And Leo remembered all over again just why everyone turned to look when Colby Kent spoke or lifted a hand or entered a room. Those blue eyes could inspire armies, not out of any rush for glory but because Colby would smile and tuck hands into princely jacket-pockets and recall the names of every person under his command and also the favorite ice-cream flavors of their children. Colby as a king would earnestly appreciate, in person, everything his knights did on a daily basis, probably while baking them lemon bars and asking kindly whether anyone would like to borrow any more books from the royal library, and what they’d thought of the last epic romance, and whether they should invite the next-door kingdom’s populace over for a book club meeting, and no one would have to fight anyone over the negotiation of shipping treaties, they could certainly work something out across coffee and scones, he’d heard their queen liked pumpkin scones and he’d happened to bake some just that morning…

Magical. Every time. They’d all throw themselves in front of swords for him. Whatever Colby asked for. Because he’d be the first to jump in front of any one of them to stop an oncoming blow.

Colby, Leo thought, _was_ his friend. Colby, and Jason, and him. And now Sam, apparently. Because he, Leo, had asked, and Colby and Jason cared.

Because Colby and Jason wanted to help. To be here.

He for some reason needed to clear his throat. His coffee played along. Hiding emotion. “I trust you.”

“Oh, good.” Colby positively beamed at him, as if he’d been worried that Leo somehow wouldn’t. “Then yes, I have an idea.”

Sam, home and getting used to that, stared at the last unused trash bag in the box, sighed, and mentally added that to the list. He needed to do some shopping. Groceries. Dish soap. Some sort of superglue or duct tape for the broken arm on that dining room chair. Not the chair’s fault; it was getting older, like the house, and it tried hard.

They all tried. Cynthea and Diana had done the dishes unprompted and had even made breakfast for him, the day before. They’d asked him about London, about the movie, about why he was smiling when talking about Leo Whyte’s performance. They’d been grinning, teasing him about having a crush.

But his sisters hadn’t pushed for answers when he hadn’t known how to explain. They’d let it go. He hadn’t thought they would.

Growing up, he thought. Not kids anymore. But then none of them were.

For a minute, just for a minute, the weight hunkered down on his shoulders again. Made them sag.

The kitchen, small and outdated but theirs, leaned some compassion against him in the form of an oak-hued cupboard door. It was trying too.

He’d gone through his photos, both from the red carpet and from the morning after, at Leo’s. He’d picked out the best. Some excellent shots of Colby Kent with a smile more real and visible than he’d worn at any event Sam could recall, and Jason Mirelli looking at Colby with hearts in his eyes, a tower of soft sappy muscles. Some interesting shots of Sir Laurence and a man Sam hadn’t recognized, who was apparently the author of _Steadfast_ -the-novel, and who—intriguingly—seemed to be making Sir Laurence laugh.

That one’d be a fantastic scoop: right alongside Sir Laurence coming out, they’d have a love interest for him. Any truth to the suggestion wouldn’t even matter. Jameson had liked that idea, of course.

The photos of Leo…

Those had been harder to go through. And easier. Both, and brutally so.

Leo laughing, posing, dancing shamelessly with a teakettle in his kitchen. Leo barefoot and reckless and vulnerable, dressed in a melodramatic robe. Leo cupping tea in both hands, glancing up, smile swift and small as a secret. Steam had kissed his eyelashes, long and blond and bare of any on-camera makeup.

Looking at that last one, Sam had felt his chest try to ache and expand and cave in all at once. Bizarre and welcome as an avalanche, a cascade, a release of tension. Complicated, the way Leo denied being. Made of layers.

He wanted, more than he’d ever wanted anything ever, to be the person allowed to unfold those layers. To hold any pieces that Leo chose to give him, and to guard them forever.

He sold celebrity photographs for a living. That was inescapably true.

He’d gone home with Leo. He’d woken up with Leo. That was also true. He didn’t know how to think about it; he barely recognized himself. Who was this person, the one who’d tasted mimosas and laughter in Leo Whyte’s kitchen in the depths of night? The person who’d dared to give Leo his number, who’d kissed Leo in a limousine, who hoped in the face of all practicality that fairytales could be real?

Even if Leo did want him…somehow, some way…

That kind of story didn’t happen. And didn’t include the heartbreak: questions about who’d pay for dinner, who could afford to fly first class, how Sam’s current job would cease to be an option once he himself became a subject for scrutiny, and what that’d mean for his family…

None of those questions involved whether he wanted to try.

He wanted to be with Leo again. So damn much his whole body screamed to grab the phone and send a text just to say hi.

They’d been doing that almost as soon as he’d stepped off the plane. Casual, silly, lighthearted. Random snapshots and thoughts. Sam had sent the comment about mermen and Leo’s affinity for fish pillows; Leo had sent back a link to a person-sized plush stuffed shark and some thoughts about acquiring it for the décor. Sam had wished him luck with the press tour and interviews, and Leo had texted him in spare moments, across time zones and unspoken questions and answers.

That would always be part of Leo’s life. Premieres, press events, the demands of the job. Sam, who’d skulked around the fringes of that world, couldn’t picture himself being a part of it.

He _would_ try. For Leo. If he thought he could.

He wasn’t worried about himself—he could handle it, he knew what to expect, he didn’t have any deep dark dangerous secrets to uncover, and he’d make the choice without hesitation—as much as he was about Leo, about his family, about consequences.

Leo was famous. Not top-of-the-A-list Colby Kent levels of famous, but enough for recognition. Steady work for over a decade, several big films—mostly supporting or ensemble roles, but acclaimed as well as popular—and also stage and television productions, including that well-known British science-fiction institution where he kept popping back up as the beloved villain. Sam had in fact seen an episode or two, late at night, and had been entertained; he didn’t think Leo’d been in any of the ones he’d caught.

Leo did some fan conventions, he knew, mostly for that science-fiction crowd, but sometimes for one of the nineteenth-century period drama shows, one that’d run for five years and gained a massive following. A younger Leo had played the aristocratic family’s youngest son, flirtatious and reckless and looking for his place in the world, eventually forced to grow up after the death of his father and the threat of mounting debts; Sam had inadvertently watched some of that because his brother Carlos, with a historian’s interest, had liked the show and the global politics. He recalled thinking Leo’s character was among the most complex, especially later on, when they’d given him more weight and more responsibility.

Leo had fans. A career. A world that included autograph-seekers and people who’d pay money to ask him about Del the space wizard or the Honorable Benedict Castlereigh. And Sam…

He’d stand at Leo’s side proudly, if Leo wanted that. He just didn’t know whether Leo’d be proud to do the same.

That wasn’t a critique regarding Leo. Leo Whyte, Sam considered with fondness, would jump right into the middle of a storm if the jumping felt worthwhile.

It wouldn’t be a question of Leo not wanting to. It wouldn’t even necessarily be about coming out; that was getting more accepted in the industry these days, and Leo hadn’t been shy about inviting him to the limo after the premiere. But the world would have comments about Leo’s choice of partner. What would Sam Hernandez-Blake have to offer? What kind of relationship would that be? How badly would the world judge Leo for dating a former paparazzo?

It’d have to be former. He tried to imagine keeping his job while simultaneously being the subject of said job, as other cameras followed him around. No.

And then what, he thought. Be unemployed? Depend on Leo? No, again. No.

They might not get ambushed on a daily basis—Sam tried for a second to recall how often he’d seen Leo-related stories pop up—but Leo coming out would be news, and any big film role or announcement would also be news. He guessed that they could maybe manage to go out to dinner without _too_ much trouble, especially after the first wave of novelty died down; Leo wasn’t one of the outright biggest fish in the camera-lens sights.

But he also knew he’d seen pictures, not his, of Leo out jogging in a park, and leaving a shop with an ice cream cone, and also the infamous waving-of-sex-toys incident.

But, he thought. But I want to. Despite everything, despite knowing: I want to.

His head hurt. He rubbed the spot between his eyebrows, just for a second, and thought longingly about aspirin, or maybe good scotch, though he only had the one nice bottle in the house and he’d been saving it. A single indulgence. A present to himself, the last time he’d had a tiny bit of extra cash and could afford it.

He’d shared that with Leo, too. On a magical night, the first magical night, when the world had spun just right and clicked into place, every gear and wheel right where it should be, and the universe had stood still just to let him taste honey and fire and the flavor of Leo Whyte’s mouth.

He shut his eyes and saw Leo and the teacup again, sugar and steam and roses. He wanted to play with the colors of that picture, to let the background fade, to catch the pale old-fashioned pink in the teacup’s design and the swirl of color in Leo’s eyes and the eddy of heat upward.

He wanted. God, he wanted. He looked down at the kitchen trash can and the closest interlocked pattern of floor-tiles, decades-old, familiar.

He hadn’t sent in that last photograph. Most of the rest, yes. Jameson had been thrilled. And hadn’t even asked how Sam’d managed that, no doubt assuming he’d lurked in Leo’s garden or scaled the next-door balcony. The paycheck had been far better than average.

He could pay some bills. Buy some groceries. And more trash bags.

He ignored his imminent headache. He got back to taking care of the trash in question. Picking up the full bag.

His phone buzzed at that exact second, because of course it did. He stared at the trash bag in his hand, and considered just checking later. But it might be Jameson. Might be a job, an assignment, a demand. Something about Atlanta next week, maybe, stalking that superhero film as they started up production. More money coming in.

He set down the trash, made a lunge for the phone, and froze. Not his editor. Leo.

Leo Whyte, and a simple message: _Can I call you and ask a question?_

Sam’s heart did somersaults, while his body stood perfectly still. The text, a question itself, stared up at him with electronic expectance.

He answered carefully, _Of course. Give me two minutes_. He could’ve talked to Leo in the open; he did not want to share Leo. Not his choice to make.

His sisters grumbled to each other about calculus, over in the dining room. Thea fiddled with a pencil, spinning it over fingers. They’d absolutely be eavesdropping the second he picked up the phone. He’d take Leo to his bedroom.

Leo. Wanting to talk. In his life. Memories stampeded: ruffled blond hair, long limbs, laughter. So much laughter. Vivid and vibrant, full of brightness everywhere.

He ached with want, abruptly; he set a hand on the counter, steadying himself.

Leo had texted him _now_. Which would be…one in the morning, London time. What could be so urgent? Was Leo simply awake, or was Leo in trouble? And that last thought launched a bullet into Sam’s already overworked heart: what if Leo, newly curious about sexuality, had gone out to experiment and found someone not kind to him?

No. No, that was assuming; more likely Leo’d just had a long day of press and couldn’t unwind. Sam could help. He could try.

He exhaled, standing in his kitchen with a trash bag at his feet; he ran outside and threw the trash at the bin, ran back in, washed hands, discovered a strange newfound anticipation in each step. He’d get to talk to Leo again. In thirty seconds or so.

He did not run down the hall to his bedroom, because Thea and Diana would’ve noticed that. But he did walk fast.

Leo called right as he shut the door. “Two minutes precisely. I did count.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything less.” Sam flopped onto his bed, rolled over, ended up grinning at his ceiling. That voice. Expressive and English and color-drenched as summer. In his ear. “Talk to me. Ask your question.” His hamper, with the one overflowing jeans leg, beamed with encouragement. The timeworn wood of his dresser leaned in to pay attention.

“It might require some context.” Leo must’ve moved or sat down or shifted position; rustling of fabric suggested as much. “I realize I normally dive right in, but I suspect I should explain this one first. Were you busy? I like being an interruption as much as the next attention-seeking person, but I can wait if you were in the middle of something.”

“Nope,” Sam countered happily, poking a blanket with bare toes. Blue and plain—it’d been cheap—but stoically serviceable, it accepted the gesture with some surprise but also with welcome. “Just house stuff. You know. Chores.” He rethought his phrasing. Cringed. Leo probably didn’t know. Probably paid people to deal with that. “Weren’t you doing more press today? How’d that go?”

“I was a nineteenth-century teatime hostess for a bit, so it was marvelous. And I crashed one of Jason and Colby’s interviews and made Colby compliment my top hat, so I’m fairly proud of that.” Leo paused, clearly for dramatic effect, and finished, “I do look adorable in a top hat.”

“I can see it. Not black, though. Blue, or purple, or orange. Something with color.”

“Now you’ve given me an idea. Potentially three. You’ll see the high tea interview in a day or so, I think. Jillian’s idea. We all sat round and had historically accurate sips and sandwiches and discussion of characters with an expert scholar of the time period. I poured. Colby would’ve, but I did it first.”

Of course Leo had. A host, at heart. Wanting to dive in and do everything for other people. “Looking forward to it. Was that why the top hat? Costumes?”

“No, I just thought it’d be amusing. And I know someone—well, the internet version of knowing, she’s active in the fandom and helps run those charity scavenger hunts we do—who knows someone who, as it happens, makes hats. So I asked, and one appeared at the hotel. Perfect timing to pop into the next room and hold up a monocle and ask Jason how difficult finding shirts must be in the Colonies, with that whole taming-the-wild-frontier physique and no proper gentleman’s tailors anywhere. Made Colby laugh, so there’s that.”

Yes, noted Sam’s heart. You did. Because you know Colby Kent doesn’t like being surrounded by strangers and their questions all day long. “Sounds like a good day, then.”

“Oh, well. Mostly. There’re only so many ways to answer the same questions about historical accuracy, or retell the same funny stories from set, or explain how much research I did. Which I did, in fact, and I learned quite a lot about Napoleonic War naval etiquette and my job as Jason’s second-in-command, but no one really wants to hear me talk about cannon drills or the organization of the ship’s watch. We’d all want to toss me overboard within five minutes. Did your pictures go over well, speaking of things and going over? The ones of me, naturally, the ones I definitely care about.”

Another chest-stab. Also painful, though for different reasons. “I’d listen to you talk about cannon drills for at least fifteen minutes. Not sixteen, that’d be pushing it, but fifteen, sure.” And he listened to Leo’s breath of laughter with satisfaction. “And yeah, my editor loved them. Thanks again. Um…I didn’t send him all of them.”

“Really? Why not?”

“I like you smiling at tea. You don’t have any right now, do you?”

“As it happens,” Leo said after a second, “extremely rich and chocolatey hot cocoa. End of yet another long day. Sounded tasty. I like indulgence. Take your pick of reasons.” His voice landed pleased, in a startled sort of way. Stars and fireworks bashfully liking the idea of being valued, being kept safe.

“Are you in bed?”

“I am, though I’ll have to get up to get ready for bed properly. I liked the idea of calling you from my bed, though. Where’re you?”

Leo Whyte would never equivocate or avoid confessions of desire. Wants laid open and transparent and unafraid. Held out with both hands.

One of those wants had been calling Sam from bed. Sam’s gut, and other places, tingled with heat. “Also in bed. Not _in_ bed, I mean, it’s early, just here for, um, privacy. The door locks. To my bedroom.” His sentence got distracted by the mental picture of Leo in bed, the bed where they’d made love, curled up and sipping hot chocolate.

He wanted to keep Leo warm and cuddle away all the tiredness. He also wanted to roll Leo over into rainbow pillows and taste chocolate-flavored kisses, and then get his mouth into other places and make Leo scream his name.

He poked his blanket again just for something to do, some motion, a fiddling with toes.

“So we’re both in bed,” Leo mused, lifted eyebrows audible. “And you’ve got a locked door. I’ve never had phone sex with a man—well, obviously not, since you’re my first—but I’m not opposed to trying.”

Sam’s foot kicked the blanket off the end of the bed.

“That is, if you’d like,” Leo finished. “Though I don’t know how much time you’ve got.”

“I have time! Um. I mean. Yeah, I—I would, of course I would, but you don’t have to, either.” The blanket-blob eyed him with some reproach, from the floor. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not up for. And you did say you had a question. It wasn’t about phone sex, was it…?”

Leo _had_ said that. And any questions took priority. Not Sam’s dick, which had some opinions on this subject too.

“Oh, I want to.” Leo paused for a sip of hot chocolate. “I like the idea of exploring that with you. But yes, I did have a question. So…first, you’re not busy next week, are you? Or are you? Other assignments and such? Because this may not work after all, though I’d like to think we could sort it out. I’m good at that, sometimes.”

“Um…nothing definite. And yeah, you are. Why?” Atlanta, maybe, but not officially yet. If Leo wanted to know his schedule—Leo would be in America, in California, for _that_ premiere—if Leo wanted…

Possibilities spun like tops in a hurricane: candy-colored, dancing, tantalizing. He couldn’t dare to reach out for one. “Leo?”

“Sorry, I’m here, just…having emotions for a second. About possible things. Like dandelion fluff, only in a whirlwind. Right, yes. So I talked to Colby and Jason. Earlier, not during the press carnival. After you left, I mean.”

“Okay…”

“The thing is,” Leo said, as usual with refreshingly straightforward candor, “I did rather want someone to talk to, I realized, about the sudden arrival of sex-with-a-man desires in my life. And you were on a plane, and in any case that might’ve turned into phone sex at _that_ point, and I wanted to talk to someone who wouldn’t immediately distract me by being incredibly desirable, and Colby and Jason know about managing sexuality and coming out and our profession.”

Sam bit his lip. Hard. Arousal ebbed in the face of those words. Leo’d needed to talk to someone, hadn’t been fine, after all. “Are you…um, doing okay? Can I help?”

“Oh, I’m wonderful.” Leo sounded confident. Sam exhaled again. Leo went on, “A bit of self-reevaluation, but I’m starting to figure out that in retrospect me looking at men’s mouths and thinking about how nice they’d feel probably should’ve been a clue. Jason says it’s all right to still be sorting it out, to not feel as though I need to rush into a label or anything like that, though I suspect it’s something like bi or pansexual. I’ll say as much when I tell my mum and dad, tomorrow.”

“Sorry, when you _what?_ ”

“It’s not as if I’m not going to tell them! Er…I know not everyone does run off to tell their parents first thing, of course. But I want to. We do tell each other most things. But that was part of my question. Would you like me to also mention you? Or…that’s getting ahead of the rest of the question. I should finish asking first.”

Of course Leo Whyte told his parents everything. Of course this wouldn’t be a secret. Leo would be himself, the way he always was. Standing in front of the world and baring that heart.

That courage left Sam a little stunned, a little spun around. Hurricanes and whirlwinds reemerging.

Leo did keep secrets, he decided in the wake of the spinning. Or one secret. Had to do with loneliness. With breakability. With the knowledge that everyone else saw the jokes, the pranks, the top hats and interview-crashing, and then assumed the surface covered up nothing more.

With a wistful smile into a teacup. And hesitant delight in hazel eyes at being seen.

Somewhere in there he’d made a choice. He knew he had, though he wasn’t sure he could put it into words. But he knew.

He sat up more, back against the old battered pine of the headboard. He said, “You can mention me. I’d be honored.” His voice scraped, rough with the truth of it. “Just tell me what you want me to be. A friend, or…or whatever you want.”

“Yes, well…” Leo drew a breath, let it out. “That’s the second part. If I had a—an offer—well, really it’s Colby’s offer, but he’s doing it for us…it’d bring you to Los Angeles…would you be interested?”

“You’re gonna have to explain that some more, I think?” Colby? Colby _Kent_? Making him some sort of…offer?

“I told Colby and Jason that I wanted to see you again,” Leo said, clear and simple, as if it could be simple, “and Colby asked whether you liked your current job, and I said it was a bit complicated, and he offered to give you exclusive access to follow him and Jason around in Los Angeles for a week or so and document their life together, on the condition that all your photos remain your pictures, your property, and any money you make from them is all yours.”

Sam nearly fell off his bed. Would’ve, if he hadn’t been more or less sitting in the middle, against the headboard. It propped him up while he forgot how to breathe.

“Oh, and they’d like copies of any they particularly like, if you wouldn’t mind,” Leo heaped atop that. “Not a condition, but a request.”

“Colby Kent…and Jason Mirelli…a week with _Colby Kent and Jason Mirelli_ …”

“They’ve finally bought that house they’ve been looking at, the one in LA, or around LA, near Jason’s family, so you’ll get a lot of pictures of them redecorating, I imagine. Plus the Los Angeles _Steadfast_ premiere.”

“Nobody gets pictures of Colby Kent!”

“Except you, now.”

“But he…they…they don’t even know me! Why would they—” He stopped, whispered, “You asked. For me.”

“I didn’t,” Leo said. “Not precisely. I said I wanted to see you, and Colby asked whether I’d like help, and I said yes, possibly, and…then he offered. I never expected this particular offer. I wouldn’t’ve asked for that.”

“No, you wouldn’t…you don’t. Ask. For yourself.” He managed to inhale. Exhale. Right. Lungs working. Going well so far. “You would never ask him for something like this. Something that maybe he wouldn’t want to do.”

“I wouldn’t.” Leo’s accent held emotion like newly lifted castle banners, woven of small fragile unfurling pleasure at Sam’s certainty. “But I did ask for help. So…”

“He offered, you said. He’s—he and Jason—they’re okay with this? With doing this?”

“Jason asked that,” Leo said. “After Colby said it. The way he looked at Colby, asking—that nearly made _me_ cry, unless that was just the beauty of Colby’s pear and brandy French toast. And Colby said yes, he was sure, and then he asked if I thought you’d mind the inconvenience of any schedule interruptions and whether he could compensate you for that, on top of paying you for the week and for travel expenses.”

Sam, back to feeling flattened by a Colby Kent-shaped missile of niceness, choked out, “They don’t have to pay me, if I’m making money off their pictures—!”

“To be candid about it, Colby can more than afford to,” Leo pointed out. “And that’s not even counting Jason and all the John Kill money. He’s an action figure, did you know that? A collectible. I’ve bought twelve. I have plans for a display.”

Sam looked at his own right hand, which had decided to clutch a pillow. The pillowcase, faded green and getting thin, looked back with something like a shrug. Uncharted territory for them both. “Leo…I…I don’t know what to say.”

“If it helps…I’ll be there as well? For the premiere, but also I thought I might…well, stay on. In Los Angeles. For the week.”

“Leo,” Sam breathed, caught in splinters of happiness like shattering crystal. Sharp-edged, potentially dangerous, they promised glimpses of shimmering delight.

“I think,” Leo said, “Colby and Jason also want to play chaperone. To get to know you, as it were. They’re being protective. Of me.”

“Because they’re your friends.”

“They…” Leo laughed softly. “They are. I think. And you’re…something else, perhaps. Something more. If you’d like. You see why I asked how I might mention you to my parents…”

“You…you’d want…I said I was honored.” He tightened his grip on his supportive pillow. “I am. I want…whatever you want. Being with you. Public, not public, whatever you decide…but should we talk about it?”

“Not public just yet,” Leo said, and the part of Sam’s heart that wished it could believe in fairytales flinched, but it made sense: Leo had an audience to consider, a movie-star image to maintain. Dating a tabloid journalist likely landed right above an announcement about not liking puppies, on the career-wounding scale.

But Leo went on, “I only mean not just yet in the sense of, not in the next few days, of course. You’re right that we should talk about how to handle it—your life will change as well, as soon as we say anything, which of course you know—and I feel as if that’s the sort of talk we ought to have in person. I don’t plan to hide, though, and I absolutely don’t want to hide you. By the way…you haven’t in fact said yes yet, as far as Colby’s offer.”

“Oh my god,” Sam said, mostly directed at himself and the pillow.

Leo hesitated for a second, and then said, even more quietly, “Please.”

“Yes! Oh god, fuck, yes, seriously!” Shouting a little; he hauled his voice back down to reasonable-person levels. His sisters might’ve heard that one. But he couldn’t let sadness thread itself into the tapestry of Leo Whyte for another second. “Leo. Yes. I’ll be there. With you. Yes to everything. Tell me where and when to show up. And where and when you want me to kiss you. Any time, any place.”

He’d made Leo laugh again. His feet wanted to tapdance right there on the bed.

“I _want_ you to kiss me right now,” Leo informed him, still laughing. “Where? Everywhere, honestly. Not my feet. They’re ticklish. But everywhere else. The way your mouth feels, on me…I want more of that.”

More. Like sunshine. Like another movie premiere, out in California. Like a chance, a fantastic glittering once-in-a-lifetime chance.

He had that chance. Because Colby Kent was apparently the nicest person on the entire fucking planet. And because Leo had reached out to a friend. Had been brave enough, hopeful enough, to try to believe that someone would be there for him.

Leo hadn’t asked on his own behalf. He’d done it for Sam.

Sam’s heart had always known that Leo was amazing. It hadn’t known just how amazing. The want filled up his whole body, sweet and aching. Leo deserved everything. So much love, so much care. Hot chocolate and ridiculous ornate robes.

Toes still wanting to dance, whole self thrilled for Leo and thrilled about seeing Leo, whirling with ideas and possibilities, he said, “Did you say phone sex, earlier?”

“I did! I’m very much in favor of that. But would you have time? I know you’re busy and it’s still early there.”

“Um…” A glance at the clock informed him that he had just under half an hour, give or take, until his sisters, having the appetites of teenage athletics-playing wolves, would start having questions about dinner. “Sure.” He’d make it work. “Not a ton of time, not like hours, but enough for you to not have to worry about it. Have you, um, done the phone sex thing before? Or, wait, you said you hadn’t.”

“Not with a man, I said, but yes I have. I imagine the idea’s more or less the same. I should tell you I’m only wearing my robe and pajama trousers. Silky blue trousers, if you’d like the image. Though I could take those off. If you’d like me to.”

“Hmm…not yet.” Sam leaned back against the headboard, shut eyes, imagined: Leo lounging in bed, wrapped up in opulent sapphire and gold brocade, arousal tenting silky pants. Leo with parted lips, softness and excitement colliding in the color of that gaze, green and brown tangling with exuberance. Leo made of long lean pale skin and pert pink nipples, which had so clearly liked being played with…

His own dick, trapped under jeans, pushed upward. A swell of need. A craving.

He said, “Nice and silky, you said. Your pants. Touch yourself for me. Through them, no taking anything off yet.”

“Oh. I can do that—” Leo’s breath caught. “Oh. I see. That feels…you want me to tell you that it feels good? I’d like more, please.”

“Tell me what you’re doing.”

“Only…only stroking myself. Over my clothing, yes, as you said.” The smile warmed every layer of English-theater accent. “It’s nice. It feels…nice.”

“Good.” Sam gave in and rubbed a hand over himself as well, not really stroking but fondling idly, through denim. He could wait, if Leo needed some direction, some control. “Got lube or something?”

“Mmm…hang on.” Quick motion, rustling, a return; Leo sounded eager about upcoming events. “I’ve also got both hands free now. Not holding the phone. Go on. Tell me more things to touch.”

“Nope, we’re leaving your cock alone for now. Just making sure you had stuff.”

“But—” Leo stopped. “Oh, all right.” This time the forest groves weren’t so much annoyed as dismayed, entertained, willing to listen. “Should I say the yes, sir? No, that’s a bit odd. I’d probably laugh. But…I do like you telling me what to do.”

“I know. You like it just a little on the rougher side, don’t you? Having someone take charge, take care of you, give you lots of things to feel, so you _can_ feel them…” Fuck. He scrambled for the zipper on his own jeans. Shoved them and boxers hastily down. His cock throbbed, fat and wet-tipped as he closed a hand around himself. “You liked me playing with your nipples, didn’t you? Do that for me. Both hands.”

Leo drew a breath, and then made a noise that was more or less a shiver.

“More,” Sam said. “Harder. Tug on them. Pinch them. Let me hear you.” He rubbed his hand slowly along his shaft, no rhythm yet.

Leo obviously did, and his gasping tiny cry shot like silver down Sam’s spine. “Oh god…that…I felt that _everywhere_ …I need to…”

“You need what I say you need. Do it again.” He paused. “If you want something else, if you want me to stop…you just say so, okay?”

“Yes,” Leo murmured, voice catching, skipping, snagged in desire. “I do tend to speak up about wanting things. Please, Sam…this feels so…I’m rather warm now, you know, I could take off some clothing if you’d like.”

“You don’t, you know. Talk about what _you_ want.” He’d never wanted to stroke someone’s hair, to cup someone’s cheek and make their eyes meet his, so badly. He needed to be there. Needed to fly across an ocean and hold Leo in his arms. “I want you to tell me what you need.”

“I do so—” Leo stopped the protest, though. “I don’t need much, really. Except right now. I need you. This is…it’s hurting a bit but in such a lovely way…they’re getting a bit pink and sore and I feel as if I’ve been drinking Colby’s homemade mead, but I promise you I haven’t. My trousers’re getting messy, by the way. I’m not certain I’ve ever been this hard before, either. You’re so very marvelous at phone sex.”

Sam’s heart broke a little, not from pain, but from love: fractured right along the line of Leo dismissing his own needs in favor of praising Sam’s skills. God, this man. This complicated beautiful generous man. His, somehow. For as long as Leo wanted him, whatever Leo decided they could be.

He managed, hurting with affection, “Stop playing with your nipples. You can lose the pajama pants now. But keep your robe on. I want you like that, in your bed, so I can picture you.”

“Are you touching yourself as well?” The question emerged unusually tentative, as if momentarily younger and unsure: hoping for a yes but afraid the answer might be no, afraid that Sam wasn’t truly honestly into this or into Leo. “Will you tell me if you are?”

“Yeah. Of course. To both.” He said it firmly, trying to eliminate any hint of doubt; he took himself in a tighter grip, gave himself a couple of strokes, knew Leo would be picturing him. “I am, and I’ll tell you. Got my hand on my cock, making myself feel good, thinking about you.”

“About me,” Leo said, less tentative now, “taking off my trousers? Here in bed, the way you wanted me? Feeling rather sparkly and hot and desperate? You like thinking of me…”

“I do. I promise, Leo. I like thinking about you.” Absolute truth. Conviction in every word. He hoped Leo heard it, believed it, knew it. “You can touch yourself—still not your cock. Your balls, though. Play with those for me. Not too gentle, either, you did say you liked it kinda rough. Tell me how you’re feeling.”

“Oh god—” Leo’s breath caught, someplace between a moan and a sob.

“What’d you do?”

“What you said…a bit rougher…holding, touching, squeezing a bit…tugging…”

“Hmm.” Sam thought this over. He had a couple of ideas. He was pretty sure, from the last time—from everything they’d done—that Leo wasn’t exactly into the masochistic side as much as into overall intensity and stimulation, but was _definitely_ up for those last two. Which was perfect, because Sam himself wasn’t big on causing pain for partners. But he did like making Leo feel…well, everything. “You want to try something for me? Spread your legs more. Opened up. Wide.”

“All right…”

“I want you to give your balls a little tap. Nice and light, not too hard, just a tap with your hand, but enough that you feel it. Let me hear you.”

Leo audibly swallowed, but didn’t argue. And followed the order.

Sam heard the sound of it, hand against vulnerable flesh. And then the sound of Leo’s gasp, and several breathless tumbling four-letter words, extra-filthy somehow in that history-laced accent.

“Did that feel good?”

“I—I—” Leo panted, gathered more words, retorted, “I just about came, right then, I’ll have you know. I only didn’t because I thought perhaps you didn’t want me to, yet.”

“And that made you stop?”

“That sounds too deliberate, but sort of? More like a feeling. Swimming around in my head. You telling me I’d been good, I’d got it right, if I behaved myself for you. Or not, if I hadn’t.”

“But you liked that? Doing that. And thinking it.”

“I never knew I did, but it seems I do. What else don’t I know? What sorts of things can you do with my anatomy?”

Sam paused to muffle a laugh. Christ. Moderately kinky phone sex with Leo Whyte, squarely in the middle of an upheaval that could change his life, and he was laughing.

The world shone. The evening blazed with color, sunset and lamplight. His old straightforward bed and dresser and thoroughly squished pillow perked right up again, and even creaked in encouragement.

He was alight with emotion. Alive with it. “I can do a lot with your anatomy, Leo. Got a lot to show you. For now…grab your lube. Keep your legs spread. You’re gonna play with your hole for me, get fingers in there, okay? But not just yet. Back behind your balls, first. Your taint. Just touch yourself, let it feel good, rub at it, maybe give that a little tap too, or more than one. Not hard, again, we’re not gonna hurt you. Just get you all ready, all warmed up and sensitive.”

Leo did as instructed. And began moaning, as the sounds carried across. Sam could picture him: flushed and wide-eyed and trembling, pinkened all over, cock upright, hands obedient to command and pleasure and a hint of erotic pain.

He said, “Tell me how hard you are. I am. All hard and hot, leaking a little for you to lick up, picturing you doing all this for me.”

“Oh god,” Leo said, “yes, yes, please…I _am_ , I’m so…I never even thought…I’m so _close_ , my cock hurts, I’m dripping all over myself, I’m not even touching myself there, how did you even _do_ this to me, what the _fuck_ , Sam,” and the indignance and the pleading and the enthusiasm burst and flooded the evening like thunder, like rain, like a cleansing of the world.

So perfect. So exactly right. Sam tried not to laugh more, couldn’t help it—too happy—and said, “Sorry? But you like it. Go ahead and open yourself up. Your hole. With your fingers. Enough lube so it doesn’t hurt, please.” He figured he might need to add that last part, if Leo enjoyed and wanted to push the roughness.

Leo just moaned, all long and liquid, which meant that’d felt excellent, and also made Sam’s cock jump and pulse and spill some shining fluid over the tip.

He said, “Good. You’re so good, Leo—you know that, right? You always are. But right now, like this…doing everything I say, trusting me…you’re being so good. I want you to know that. What’re you doing now?”

“Fingers,” Leo whispered. “Two. In—in me. So slippery and tight and it feels…I feel as if…it’s almost full enough. It’s not you. I need more. I—I like…”

“You like what?”

“You talking to me,” Leo admitted, sincere and unconcealed. “Being pleased with me. I like that.”

“Me too. And I am pleased with you. So proud of you, Leo.” Too much? Maybe. But Leo let out a soft whimper of pleasure, and that went straight down Sam’s spine and pooled in his balls and gathered gold and imminent at the base of his cock.

He said this time, “Move your fingers. Find that sweet spot for me, just the way I did for you, okay? Make yourself feel it. Imagine it’s me if you want. My hand right there, my fingers in you, moving inside you…”

“You are,” Leo agreed promptly, if somewhat hazily. “Your hand, your fingers…not mine…they’re yours in any case, however you want me to use them…oh. _Oh_.” All the words stopped for a second.

“So you found it. Just keep those fingers still for a sec. Right where they are. No moving.”

Leo actually swore at him again, colorful and cheerful and euphoric. “I’m lying here with my fingers in myself and my balls throbbing and my cock possibly literally wanting to explode. If you tell me to stop I’ll scream. Or cry.”

“But you’d do it, wouldn’t you?”

“Oh, absolutely and entirely fuck you. Yes, I would. I feel splendid. High as some sort of very high thing. Clouds. Kites. Comets. What else would you like me to do? I’m right on the edge in any case, so you may not have to tell me much.”

“Wonder if you could come just like that, holding still for me, not moving, just me talking to you…”

“ _Sam_ ,” Leo practically wailed.

“Bet you could. Not this time, though. Wish I could see you, just the way you said you looked, all spread out and gorgeous and needing me so bad.” He’d started stroking his own cock faster, semi-consciously, along with the words. “Okay. Other hand on your dick. Just real light, just barely touching yourself, got it? A nice little brush with your fingertips…maybe a little more, up and down…”

Leo was just about sobbing with frustrated need now, and Sam guessed he’d either fall over the brink and come on the spot or else get too overwhelmed for anything more within a few seconds, so: “Okay, when I say you can, then you can come. We’re gonna make it feel like everything you need, and it’ll be a lot, but you’ve been doing so well, you’ve been so good for me, and you trust me, right?”

“Yes.” Leo’s voice shuddered with ecstasy, with yearning. “Yes, please.”

“When I tell you to, you’re gonna move those fingers— _my_ fingers—inside you, right where you’re feeling so good, and when you do that…I want you to hit your cock for me, not too hard, just like you were doing, just a nice sweet tap, the way you liked it. And you’re gonna come like that, from that. While I’m over here stroking myself, thinking about you doing that. Understand?”

“Fucking hell,” Leo breathed, astonished, craving. “Yes. Oh god yes. Can I—can I—now, or—”

“Yeah. Now.”

Sounds sizzled, wet and glorious, lube and Leo’s hand moving, fingers thrusting and rubbing inside his body. Leo’s other hand also moving, the noise of it—

Leo cried out, broken and shocked and rapturous, and the cry held Sam’s name and “I’m—it’s—god, _Sam_ —” and collapsed into shaky wordless moans.

“Leo,” Sam said urgently, “Leo, _my_ Leo—that sounded so good, you’re so good, so perfect for me, I’m right there too, I’m about to come, baby, thinking of you, hearing you—” and he was, hand moving faster and faster, slicker now with his own want, hearing Leo’s climax pound in his ears, feeling the heat and the rising in his length as it slid through his hand, up and down—

He came all at once, a deep rush of release that swept up and flooded out of him, overflowing banks and boundaries. He came all over his hand and his stomach and even his shirt, spurts jolting up further than he’d imagined. Awed, lightheaded, he whispered, “Leo.”

“Oh god,” Leo said, still shaky, maybe even sobbing in the aftermath. “Sam…”

“I’m here. I’ve got you. How’re you feeling? Everything good?”

“I don’t know!” Leo stopped crying to laugh, the sound amazed, intoxicated, exuberant; he stopped, audibly shook his head, went on, “Yes. Definitely good. But that was…so much. I feel as if…I think you’ve taken me apart and put me back together. Naked. Not only in the obvious way. I’m very sticky and covered in myself and utterly exhausted but sparkly, head to toes. It’s wonderful and I’m not certain I can do it every time. Was that also, for you…you did enjoy doing that?” _With me?_ said the tone of that question.

“So much. So fucking much.”

“Really?”

Sam shoved himself more upright against the headboard. “That was, like, top five orgasms ever, and the other four had you there in person. And—oh shit.” Time. He’d seen the clock. “Nothing to do with you! It’s—”

“The time,” Leo said, because Leo understood: good at noticing and remembering what people said or didn’t say or mentioned. “I just thought of that too.”

“I’m not getting off the phone until you’re okay.”

“I’m fine. Wonderful, I said.”

“Leo.”

“I’m…all right. Tender. In spots.”

“Not just physically, you mean. Fuck. Sorry. Wish I could be there.”

“So do I, but you are, as much as you can be.” Leo sighed. Sam could see him: sprawled out in a disaster of open robe and exhausted legs and expensive sheets and limp spent cock, worn out and languid and trying to offer reassurance. “You’re here talking to me. I really am all right; I’m only…coming down from it, I think. I may have to buy more robes, if you like debauching me in them.”

“Leo,” Sam sighed, “you’re not exactly proving that you’re okay, y’know,” and Leo, surprised, said, “Oh,” and stopped talking.

Sam said, “I’m not leaving you,” and Leo swallowed hard and said, “I hope you wouldn’t, after I’ve helped give you one of the five best orgasms of your life, you said?” and Sam said immediately, “All five, didn’t you hear me? And that’s not why. I’m here because I want to be here for you, Leo.”

Leo went quiet again, and then, right as Sam started wondering whether that’d somehow come out wrong, said, “I very literally couldn’t think of anything to say. I don’t know what I’m _supposed_ to say. It’s too important, it’s too big, and I can’t get it wrong or make a joke, and I can’t think.”

Other people, Sam thought, might not’ve said that. Might not admit to not knowing, or to wanting—and not choosing—the deflection of humor. But Leo would always say it all: honest as sunbeams, as gold soaking through new leaves and rich earth.

He said, “You don’t have to say anything yet, it’s fine, I get it. We broke your brain with sex.”

Leo snorted at him, which should’ve been inelegant and wasn’t. “You did, yes, and thank you for it. Good heavens. Which is not something I say normally, but I’ve been spending time with Colby, who hardly swears ever, which makes me feel horribly guilty every time I even think the word _fuck_. Not that that stops me from thinking it.” Lightness hid emotion, but only barely.

Sam tipped his head back against his headboard. He’d have to get up soon. Clean up. Change shirts. Do something about dinner. Check in on siblings and homework completion. “I like hearing you say it. Do you have any food? Something with sugar? And also something like water or juice.”

“I’d have to go downstairs—oh, wait. I do. One of the assistants gave us some snacks at one point this afternoon, and I put the biscuits in my pocket and forgot about them, and those trousers’re over there on that chair. Are you making me get up?”

“Yes,” Sam announced, throwing just a suggestion of command in there. “If you feel up to it. No rush. Also get water. And I know you’ve got lotion, so find that, you’ll want it in a couple minutes. Something with aloe or arnica would be great, or something cooling, but whatever you’ve got.”

Leo sighed pathetically at him, but rolled off the bed—Sam heard him get up—and went looking. And then flung himself back down. “I’ve got water and rather crumbly chocolate biscuits and I found the salve Jason’s stuntperson family swears by. He gave me some today, in case I ever needed it.”

At this point they both paused to process _that_ statement. In the wake of everything they’d just done. Plus the fact that Colby and Jason knew about at least the sex that’d already happened.

Sam very slowly shut both eyes. He might never be able to look at Jason again. Could be a problem for an upcoming job offer.

“Wow,” Leo said, “I really truly didn’t think of that. Which I can’t quite believe. How did I _not_ think he meant that? But he said it so casually, as if, you know, of course we get bumps and bruises all the time, even Colby does some stunt work, and Jason likes protecting people. But…wow.”

Sam, because he had to, said, “…good heavens?” and listened with vast pride to the sound of Leo dissolving into a puddle of laughter and biscuit crumbs.

“Oh, god,” Leo said, reemerging. “You’re wonderful. You’re just wonderful. I feel a lot better, actually, already. Much more balanced. I should probably shower, and sleep, and let you go for now? Not that I want to, but we should, shouldn’t we?”

“Maybe. Let’s say…eat your biscuits—cookies, right?—and have some water, and when you feel up to it, go shower. Then put that…salve…on everyplace that you even _think_ might be even a tiny bit sore, and get in bed, and text me once you’ve done all that. I won’t keep you up, you should rest, but I want to know.”

“So you know I’m all right?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, just that, and the truth of it poured out along the phone connection and brought warmth along, unfurling, shared. “Please.”

“I can do that.”

“Good. And, Leo…”

“Hmm?”

“Thanks. For…” This time he was the one without words. For everything. So much. “For trusting me. With you. And with your friends. I—I don’t know how to say thank you. Other than saying yes. And I’ll be there.” For you, he meant. And for them. For all that you’ve given me.

“I’d take credit, but it really was Colby’s idea.” Leo yawned, drowsy and chocolate-filled and contented. “I’ll tell him tomorrow that you’ve said yes, and he and Jason will be in touch. And someone will tell me things, I hope. And…and I know you’re much more experienced about the sex part than I am, and Colby and Jason will handle the details of getting you out to LA, Jason’s very organized about travel, and…I only want to say that I’m, well, also here. I want to be. I’ll try, if you ask me. You’ve been so good at that for me, and I—I just want to make sure you knew that. That I want to be, too.”

Sam’s heart tripped over itself and Leo’s words. He didn’t know how to fix some of that, how to answer the howling wrongness that was Leo’s assumption about self-worth versus other people, and then he felt a hot burn behind his eyes at the courage it’d taken to offer that self anyway, and most of all he wanted to kiss Leo gently all over, including the ticklish feet, and then turn himself into a shield for that big rainbow-hued soul and take on every arrow shot by the world.

He said, for now, “Leo…one more order, okay? And I want you to listen.”

“Are we honestly doing orders? I’m not certain I’m good at following them. Bossy, I believe you called me.”

“You are, sometimes. You make things happen, around you. I like it. But this one’s important.”

“Oh, fine, if it’s important.” Leo yawned again. “I like saying yes to you. Even if I am a bit sore, after. In nice ways.”

“I’m going to see you,” Sam said, “next week, in California, because you made _that_ happen. For us. Because you _are_ here for me. Because that’s who you are. You don’t have to be anyone else, you don’t have to be some sort of instant sex expert, you don’t have to be Colby Kent, you just have to be you. And the person you are is pretty damn awesome, Leo Whyte.”

“Of course I am, I’m—”

“That’s the order. I want you to listen to me saying that, and I want you to really think about it, not just turn it into a joke. You care about people, and you care about me, and you’ve already made my life about fifty times better just by buying fish-shaped pillows and smiling at your tea and letting me see you. When I say I’m not leaving you, it’s because I’m thinking the same thing you are, about being here. And when I see you next week I’m going to have plans for, um, a lot of your anatomy, just letting you know in advance.”

He stopped. Leo had made a rather frantic noise, maybe crying, also sort of like a cough. “You okay?”

Leo swallowed what sounded like a gulp of water, and explained, “I started trying not to cry, but then I was eating a biscuit, and then I sort of tried to inhale a biscuit, and then I had to cough, and…I’m sorry, you were being lovely, and I’m awful, I’ve ruined it, and I—I still might want to cry, but not as badly, I think.”

“You couldn’t ruin anything if you tried. And you wouldn’t, because you only ever try to help.” Why the hell _couldn’t_ he teleport across oceans, again?

But Leo took another sip of water, and said, “Honestly fifty times better?” He didn’t sound skeptical, only curious, exploring the edges of a new idea.

“At least. Maybe a hundred. A thousand.”

“I…did say I like saying yes to you. And trying things.”

“So you’ll think about it.”

“I will. I promise.”

“Good.”

“And…I’ve also got biscuit crumbs all over me now. It’s a bit of a problem. Certain places were still rather sticky. And now you’ve got that image of me to consider, so I’d understand you rethinking the sex plans for my anatomy.”

“Nope,” Sam informed him, “now I’m thinking about eating chocolate off of you, sorry, there’s literally nothing you can say that’ll make me not want you,” and Leo laughed, and the evening glowed with sweetness and satisfaction.

They got off the phone, softly, amid affirmations of care and texting and check-ins. Sam let Leo hang up first, and sat there looking at his phone for a while, not moving.

It was real. It was all real. Leo and this life and this job offer. The future changing, opening up, billowing outward right in front of his eyes.

He knew this was only a chance, an opportunity, a glimpse. He wouldn’t even quit his current job right away, especially if he and Leo weren’t going public yet; he’d just have to say he wasn’t available for a while, but he could do that, though Jameson—and a few other editors he sometimes worked for—would grumble about it.

He’d have a week to prove what he could do. At the end he’d have the pictures, and the hope that they were in fact good; he’d have a reputation as the only photographer allowed exclusive access to the home of Colby Kent and Jason Mirelli, and that fact alone would open other doors, even if his work wasn’t flawless, in the end.

He did want to believe he’d do Colby and Jason justice. He would try.

He would give them his best. For Leo’s friends, who deserved that. For Leo, who he loved, and he’d admit that in the privacy of his own head: he was in love, and he knew he was.

Head over heels. Swept away. Fast and all-encompassing and everything he’d never imagined he could have. Leo was the best person he knew, and even more than that, the person who fit him, fit into his heart, just right.

Leo, he thought, had asked him about what he loved, in photography. And he’d answered honestly. People, and stories, and catching moments. Life. The world, shared with others.

So he’d go to California, and he’d do this for Leo’s friends, and for Leo. And for himself.

Because he _was_ good at capturing those stories, or he hoped so. And he knew Colby Kent only rarely allowed photographs, and that might be a challenge, but then there was a love story there, a story about Jason and finding home and trusting people; the tantalization nudged at a long-shut door in his chest and kicked it open partway.

He wanted to see what he could do. He wanted to find out.

He wanted to find out with Leo at his side.

He moved a hand, made a face at drying release all over his skin, hauled himself off the bed. Leo would be showering, getting clean, applying salve, slipping back into luxury sheets. Much nicer than Sam’s own; but somehow that didn’t matter, or not much, in the wake of the moment. They’d shared it together.

Clean-up, he thought. Clothing. Change. Go out and talk to Cynthea and Diana. Maybe pasta for dinner. Easy enough. They had some tomatoes. Some peppers.

Thea and Di were used to him leaving, and at nearly eighteen were independent enough to not be too bothered; they understood about his job, and the demands. He did tell them most things, the way Leo had talked about doing with family; not everything, because there were definitely some parts of his life that sat squarely in the realm of never to be discussed with younger sisters, and those parts generally included first of all how much he hated his job, and secondly anything related to his sex life ever.

He’d tell them this. Of course he would. If this opportunity meant what it could…or even if it didn’t work out, but at least gave him something, a line on a resume, a reference…

It’d change their lives too.

He’d also have to tell them about Leo. About him and Leo.

Him and Leo. Sounded nice. Sounded…not impossible. Improbable, yeah, and Leo was right about them needing to talk, about publicity and paparazzi and relationships and worlds colliding.

But possible? Maybe. Just maybe.

He could see the glimpse of it. A shape on the horizon. He thought that Leo, who’d talked about telling his parents, who’d gone to friends brimming over with hope, had seen it too.

He yanked on a clean shirt, scooped up his phone, knew that Leo would text him soon, and let that knowledge fill up his bones.

He went back out down the hall, towards the kitchen; the twins had abandoned calculus homework in favor of staring into the refrigerator. They both turned when he came in; Diana looked him up and down and said, “Good phone call?”

“Yes,” Sam said. “If you’re going to stand there, get the last two tomatoes out, and I think we have spaghetti?”

Thea narrowed eyes at him. They looked alike but not exactly identical; the same dark hair, the same smoky brown thoughtful stare, but Thea was a fraction taller and Di’s hair curled more. They’d fooled a few teachers, purely for fun, but never either of their brothers. Carlos claimed this was because he was the smartest; the twins always rolled eyes and asked him to explain seventeenth-century politics _without_ using pretentious grad-student words, again, and then also shamelessly asked for help with high-school history projects.

Thea said, finally, “Why’s your hair doing that thing?”

Sam automatically put a hand up to touch. Couldn’t figure out the thing she meant. Extra-wavy? Standing up from pulling a shirt on? Hopefully not splashed with anything more disturbing.

“Also your shirt’s inside-out,” Di informed him. “Were you having phone sex?”

“No! And it is not!”

“But you just checked to make sure.”

“You did,” Thea put in, tossing a tomato at her sister. Her jeans, Sam noticed, were looking worn and faded, though that might just be some sort of style.

“You shouldn’t even know about sex,” he said. “I’m going to pretend you don’t. Not even when you’re forty years old. So, um, I might have news. Wait, first, how was the calculus?”

“Depressing.”

“Disgusting.”

“Finished for now. Is it about Leo Whyte?”

Sam stood in the kitchen, frozen beside a countertop and a package of pasta, and stared at his sisters.

“You think we don’t notice when you come home smiling and staring at your phone—”

“—and also you left it unlocked and showing a picture of him, this morning, when you were making coffee. He’s pretty cute.”

“Maybe,” Sam tried, “I just also think he’s cute—”

“You dropped everything to run off to London for his premiere.”

“You got paid for it, we know, but that one was pretty last-minute even for you.”

“Plus we heard he didn’t show up at any of the afterparties. And in that picture he put on all his social media, you can see someone else’s arm or elbow or something in the corner.” Diana, Sam registered vaguely, would be an award-winning reporter someday. He felt mildly terrified on behalf of her fellow students and her school paper as it was.

“We didn’t know Leo Whyte was into guys. Like, there’re tons of rumors, we went and checked, but nothing confirmed ever.”

“But you’re our brother, so you’re awesome—” They waved hands at him in unison, as if the gesture explained something. “—and so of course he’d be into you. Once he met you. How’d you even meet, anyway?”

Sam propped elbows on the counter, buried his face in his hands for a minute, and complained, “I’m home for like two days and you’re looking up my love life on the internet…”

“Because we care.” Di patted his arm. “Someone has to worry about you, Big Ham.” That particular nickname dated back years, to the time Thea’d decided his name should rhyme with something, had come up with “Ham,” and when Sam had tried to protest this on big-brother grounds, had said instantly, “Fine, Big Ham!” He kept hoping they’d forget. The hoping hadn’t worked yet.

“So,” Thea said, finding garlic, “was that your news? Because, you know, you can still tell us, we’ll pretend we’re surprised—”

“—and we’re totally happy for you. Seriously. Though, like…we might need to talk about you dating a movie star.”

“Total Big Ham move.”

“Can you get us free movie tickets?”

Cynthea looked at him for a second, and said, “It’s kind of a big thing, isn’t it? Dating someone like that.”

“Um,” Sam said. “We’re not…exactly dating. Or maybe. Up to him. But I want to. That’s part of it. I sort of have…more news.”

They waited, almost-mirror images of silent impatient fascination. The twins looked, he thought sometimes, like the mother they’d all lost; they looked more like each other and Carlos, sharing a father, than Sam himself, of course.

But they looked a little like him, Sam, too. Kind of. Around the eyes, the nose. Some expressions, some gestures, the way they crossed arms or opened a soda can one-handed or raised a single eyebrow.

He hadn’t noticed until their neighbor Annika had mentioned it a couple of years ago. She never minded checking in while he was gone, and the twins liked her and her family’s old Romanian recipes; she’d caught him coming home and chatted with him for a minute, mostly about how much she liked his sisters, how thoughtful they were about helping her take her cats to the veterinarian’s office, and what a good brother he was, and how anyone could see they were a family.

He tried not to feel a little proud—Thea and Di _were_ his family; maybe he’d done a good job—and then usually felt guilty about that. They would’ve grown up differently, he knew, if he hadn’t been the one trying hard to be their parent.

But that would’ve been a whole different life, too. And he’d tried not to wonder about how much better off they might’ve been. They’d done okay. He’d done okay. He was pretty sure he had.

They were a family. No matter what. Awful nicknames included. And the pasta and tomatoes watched from the counter, ready to offer support.

“It’s about California,” he said, and took a deep breath, and thought about Leo texting him soon, the weight of his phone in his pocket, the comfort of that presence. “About Colby Kent. And next week. And a job offer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Leo's been playing some version of The Master on _Doctor Who_. (Or at least the non-copyrighted version that I can write about.) He's also been on something that sounds a lot like _Downton Abbey,_ doesn't it... :D


	6. a hotel and a home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sam worries about meeting Jason, and Leo has dinner with his parents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This plus the next chapter are really one long chapter in my head, but it was getting REALLY long! So I figured this was at least a decent pause point.
> 
> Also, Leo's parents are such fun. :D

California. The week in question. A job. Sam, standing by a hotel window and a glorious view of Los Angeles, breathed in and out. The view gazed back at him: blue skies and a city of dreams.

He had a job. He had an assignment. One he couldn’t quite wrap his head around, though he’d started to accept that it was happening.

Camera equipment—not much, he traveled light—and his bag and his jacket collectively watched him from the bed. He’d dropped everything there, for now.

The bed was nice: towering and luxurious and crowned with more pillows than Sam’d ever seen in one place. He hoped they didn’t know that he had no idea what to do with them all.

The whole room was nice. No. Not nice. Fabulous. Plush pale gold carpets, high ceilings, swooping blue curtains, light California-breeze wood. Serene and expensive and a little old-fashioned, not in any sort of negative way but in the sense of having Hollywood history, personality, a design that evoked decades of movie-star luxury.

It was the sort of room and the sort of hotel Colby Kent would reserve, because Colby had in fact reserved it, for Sam’s stay. Sam had thought, when the car’d dropped him off, that there must be some mistake. He still kind of thought so.

He eyed his travel bag again. Brown and battered, it sat on the fluffy white expanse of bed and shrugged at him. Maybe neither of them belonged, but they could damn well enjoy the luxury for a while, seemed to be the point.

Leo would like the bed. And all the pillows. They came in ocean colors: turquoise, aqua, deep teal, sand-gold. One had a seahorse design picked out in lacy white stitching. Sam pictured Leo scooping it up, falling in love with it, rolling over into the whole pillow extravaganza: unabashedly adoring it all.

The thought made him feel like adoring some pillows too.

He took a picture of the seahorse puffball shape and sent it Leo’s way. He wasn’t sure where Leo was at this exact second—a meeting about returning as that television-show space-wizard villain, and then getting ready for dinner with parents, had been mentioned—but the reply came back within seconds. _I’d love to ride a seahorse, wouldn’t you? It’d be such a unique experience. Not like anything else. Which is in fact the definition of unique, isn’t it?_

Sam checked the time; Leo must be in between events, then. He himself had about half an hour before he was supposed to meet Jason Mirelli downstairs, which he was attempting not to think too much about. He’d offered to make his own way over to whatever the lunch plans involved; Jason had said, utterly casual, “Don’t worry about it, I’ll come pick you up,” as if he played chauffeur to tabloid photographers every day. Sam had tried not to whimper.

He hadn’t spoken to Colby yet, at least not on the phone. They’d emailed. Colby’s emails were very organized, in the way of someone who’d been a producer on multiple films and who knew about organization, and also mostly but not entirely very English in phrasing and spelling, and on top of that often vaguely apologetic without actually containing an apology for anything, generally hoping Sam wouldn’t mind the arrangements and offering to carry out any changes, large or small, if desired.

Colby definitely wasn’t Leo. Leo would’ve laughed and said, “You get what I arrange for you!” while quietly making sure everything was exactly what the person in question needed. Sam, holding his phone, looked at Leo’s text for a second, and went with, _Was that some sort of idea about you coming over here and riding this pillow?_

Leo started typing, stopped, started again. _If you’d like! I expect I would also like, though I’ve never done that either. Trying to picture it. Two days from now!_

I like _you_ , Sam thought. I love you, Leo Whyte. _Said I’d have plans for you. You’ll love this bed._

 _I’ll love being in it with you. Is this an appropriate coming out to one’s parents outfit, do you think? Or should there be more rainbows?_ This came with a picture: Leo standing by his bed, in dark blue pants and a pale pink button-down, sleeves rolled up to show a hint of polka-dot pattern. A shiny blue jacket lay across the bed; Leo’s hair swept itself up in a stylish blond wave, shorter on the sides, and he was grinning.

The sight flooded right into Sam’s chest and painted color there. Love bloomed, physical, aching.

He knew Leo had meant to tell his parents sooner; they’d had to reschedule a family dinner. Some sort of minor emergency involving sets and rehearsals at the historic West End venue where Leo’s mother managed theatrical finances. Nothing serious, Leo’d said, but a panicked meeting or two.

He answered, _I like it. You look like you. Colorful. Cute._

_I am entirely both of those, thank you. Say hello to Jason and Colby for me. Tell Colby he owes me a person-sized lemon tart. Actually don’t. He’ll try to bake one._

_I’ll say hi for you. Let me know how things go with your parents._

Leo did the start-and-stop typing again. Sam wondered suddenly how many people had ever said to Leo Whyte, _I’ll be here, I want to know how things go, you’re important to me_. He had a feeling the number was lower than anyone realized. He disliked that feeling with vast intensity.

 _I will,_ Leo answered. _I promise._

_Thank you._

_For talking to you? Hardly. By the way, don’t be nervous about Jason and Colby! Jason’s a teddy bear under all the muscles and Colby will attempt to buy you a castle if you express any interest at all. You may need to protect him from his own generosity._

Sam, glancing around at palatial opulence, had to agree. Long blue curtains fluttered at him, airy coquettes framing sun and sky.

He answered, _Trying not to be too nervous. Thanks again. Gotta go, but I’ll talk to you later?_

Leo this time sent him a gif of animated dancing seahorses, which Sam figured meant yes in that color-drenched whimsical vocabulary; he watched them bob up and down, and ended up smiling.

Right. Getting ready. Meeting Jason. A job. Not running late. Demonstrating his professionalism, his gratitude, his completely sincere amazement that the hottest celebrity couple on the planet had extended this chance. They’d asked whether he needed some time to settle in. Sam, trying to be as eager and accommodating as possible, had said no, the flight wasn’t that long, he could absolutely meet up for lunch and talk about plans for the week, whatever they wanted.

He ran into the bathroom, marveled at the lake of bathtub—it had gold faucets—and brushed his teeth just in case because he’d had coffee on the plane, and checked everything else in the mirror. His reflection regarded him: a hint of stubble over tanned skin, dark hair in ruffled short waves, eyes the same golden-brown as usual but with some trepidation and excitement having a battle in the background.

He’d put on a decent dark blue button-down shirt and also decent but flexible grey pants, getting ready. He had no idea what Jason and Colby had planned for lunch, and he wanted to show them that he was taking this seriously, that he wanted to be here, that he could be ready for anything, and also he was more or less working for them now and he really did know how to look like someone who had not made a living out of sleazy scandalous photography.

He ran out of the bathroom, grabbed his jacket—black, lightweight, unobtrusive, old but not too noticeably so—and took a deep breath.

As predicted, Jameson had wanted to send him to Atlanta, to that superhero movie location; several of the other editors and publishers Sam sometimes freelanced for would’ve also liked that. Set leaks would’ve been fantastic, and there’d been rumors about the heroic lead having a boyfriend; lots of cameras would be circling. Sam had said he couldn’t go, he’d had something come up, but it might lead to something significant; he’d hinted that it might have to do with Colby Kent and the Los Angeles premiere of _Steadfast_ , and Jameson had told him that it’d better be good, with an ominous implication of _you need my money more than I need you_ , and had hung up the phone.

At least one, probably more, of the Colby pictures would have to go to the _Daily World News_ if he wanted to preserve that relationship.

He swallowed around the newfound lump in his throat. Eyed the tip of one shoe, the worn familiarity of his Converse forming a paradox against plush five-star hotel carpeting.

He had the momentary impulse to call Jason and say he couldn’t do this, he wasn’t good enough for this, they could find a real celebrity photographer, someone with a reputation and recognition—or maybe he could call Leo and cling to that fantastical voice, irrepressible and English and bubbling over with emotion—

Leo was busy. Commitments, confessions, of his own. And Leo had done this, had arranged this, for him.

Sam squared shoulders, scooped up his phone and the smaller of the two cameras he’d brought—neither expensive, and both a few years old—and figured he could shove it into a pocket if photography wasn’t requested yet, or he could use it if they asked. Being prepared.

Leo, he thought, believed in him. Enough to ask for this, for him. So maybe—

He shut the door behind himself, and went down the hall to the elevators, which were also gold, in a dark and subtly gleaming way: smug in the knowledge of their own worth.

The excitement emerged anew: not without nerves, but giddy and beckoning.

He’d get to do this. He’d get to meet Jason Mirelli and Colby Kent. He’d try his best for them, for Leo’s friends. And he’d hear from Leo later, the two of them coming together at the end of the day. Here for each other.

Yes, he thought. Yes.

Leo, letting himself into his parents’ cluttered but tidy house, shut the door and gazed at a pink-painted wall and the multiple coat-hooks and the framed poster depicting Sir Laurence Taylor in _Macbeth_ at the Coronation Theatre in 1996, and let home sink into his bones. All the way to his toes. Up to his hair.

He wondered momentarily whether his hair had memories, and if it did, whether his had forgiven him for the terrible bleach-blond dye job a decade or so ago. Probably, he decided. He got on well enough with his hair these days.

He shrugged out of his jacket. Hung it up.

His mother’s voice floated over from the back office: “Leo, is that you? Stand and unfold yourself!”

Leo shouted back, “You come most carefully upon your hour!” because it was the next line of _Hamlet_ , and then, “But that’s wrong, _I’m_ the one coming in to find _you_!” while wandering through the sitting room and dining room and kitchen, navigating dentistry-related journal towers and time-worn squishy chairs. “Mum, why’s there a sword in the umbrella stand?”

“So I remember to take it back, of course.” His mother popped out of the office, beaming at him. They’d always looked alike; Leo took after her in tall height, thick dark blond hair, expressive eyebrows. Harriet Whyte had browner eyes—Leo’s own hazel had come out midway between his parents’ woodsmoke and emerald—and the inexhaustible energy of a greyhound before a race, assuming that greyhound also knew how to wield a broadsword, speak Latin, and manage the finances for one of the oldest and most intimate examples of London’s theatre world. “I borrowed it for some practice with that grip. It’s for a production of _Blood and Sand_ next month. Oh, those’re lovely, thank you—”

Leo had picked up the flowers with her favorite colors in mind, riotous pinks and purples and the occasional pop of white and gold; he said cheerfully, “Maybe they’re for Dad, not you,” and wiggled them at her. “Got a vase?”

“Oh, yes, somewhere.” His mother glanced back at her office, which currently held multiple bookshelves, one dozing tabby cat on his perch, two computer monitors, and ten toy knights arranged along her desk. “Not in here, obviously. Kitchen?”

“Logical,” Leo agreed, and trailed her back out to the world of copper pots and an old but much-loved teakettle and a covered pan of something mysterious but savory-smelling on the stove. Benvolio the tabby yawned, stretched, and sauntered after them.

“Your father’s been experimenting again, so it’s a sort of venison cobbler? I think? With horseradish scones.”

“I’m not even going to ask.” Leo peeked into the pan. “Actually, yes I am. Are those parsnips?”

“Probably? I really couldn’t tell you. I’m sure it’ll be delicious, though.” Harriet Whyte did not cook, famously so. Leo adored his mother and would physically stand between her and the stove if she ever expressed interest in attempting scrambled eggs again. They’d been simultaneously rubbery _and_ crispy. He to this day had many unanswered questions.

She got down on the floor to peek into a cupboard. Benvolio sat down beside her and put whiskers forward. “Here, will this work?”

Leo looked at the object in question. It was in fact a vase—odds had been against that—though it was a vase of a tall hand-blown murky green glass variety, with perplexing lumps and ripples in unexpected places. “Where’d this come from? And how can I get one?”

“It’s hideous.”

“It’s incredible. I want three on display somewhere. Mum, the cat’s in the cupboard.”

Harriet looked at the cupboard she’d just closed. The cupboard meowed plaintively. She said, “Oh dear,” and opened it again. Benvolio strolled out, tail held high, and went over to sit by his food bowl.

Leo put flowers into vase, water into vase, and vase on kitchen counter, next to the small sculpture of Dionysus with grapes. And then hugged his mother properly. And hard.

Harriet hugged him right back. “This is quite nice. It’s been a few weeks, hasn’t it? Oh, there, I know you’ve missed us, we’ve missed you too, what’s brought this on? Not that I’m complaining.”

“Nothing,” Leo said. “Just. I love you. And Dad.” He let go, reluctantly. “Where is Dad?”

“Wren!” his mother said. “That was where.”

“Mum, if Dad’s turned into a bird again, I wish you’d told me sooner.”

“Wouldn’t it be marvelous if he could?” She considered this possibility, head on one side. “He could just swoop us all away, take us up for a sunset flight…”

“He’d be a large bird, then. Where you got the vase, right?”

“Oh yes. This lovely young man named Wren whom I’ve just hired to do some backdrop painting. He’s learning to be a glass-blower in his spare time. I believe he was practicing. That one was a gift. Your father went out for…something. Cinnamon? No. Sugar? Coffee?”

“Maybe the coffee. Should I feed Ben? He’s glaring at me.”

“It’s his default expression, you know that. But yes, if you wouldn’t mind. Wine?”

“Yes,” Leo said, wholeheartedly. He expected he might need it. He got out a tin of cat food, which prompted a yowl of anticipation, and dutifully served the cat, who went back to purring while eating. Benvolio had ruled the house for twelve years, and approved of Leo, provided that Leo knew his place in the household hierarchy.

He took a deep breath. He didn’t truly think his parents would react poorly to his sudden discovery of bi—or possibly pan, thank you, Jason—sexuality. He knew they loved him, he knew they had huge and generous and accepting hearts—

He had never imagined coming out to his parents. He’d honestly never realized he’d need to.

He wanted to tell them. He told them everything, or just about; they’d never had secrets, as a family.

He wanted to text Sam. He wouldn’t—Sam was meeting Jason, and that was important, and Leo couldn’t interrupt—but the presence of his phone was a reassuring weight in his pocket.

He didn’t have a plan, a script, a bit of dialogue to memorize. He did not _know_ how they’d react; he thought it’d be all right. He hoped so.

He took the goblet—large and painted with dragonflies—that his mother handed over. Gulped wine without thinking. Light golden flavors washed over his tongue: pears and peaches, summer sun, effervescence. Colby would’ve known the year and the winery; Leo just swallowed and appreciated the taste, the sensation. He focused on only that, for a moment.

“Oh dear,” his mother said, setting down her own glass—it wore hand-painted strawberries with pride—and looking over at him across it. “Are you all right? Is something wrong?”

“No,” Leo said. “I mean…that is…nothing’s wrong. Something’s very right, I think. I wanted to tell you both, though. Later. Tell me about your next big production. Gladiators?”

Harriet pointed a finger at him. “As soon as your father gets home, then. And yes, and we’re so over-budget on the blood, it’s astonishing how much we’re needing, but I saw the rehearsals and it looks so gloriously gory, it’ll be a smashing success…”

They settled in at the small kitchen table, cozy, sipping wine. Scents of experimental venison and parsnips and horseradish drifted, not badly, through the air. Benvolio came over, hopped up, and made himself at home on Leo’s lap. Leo scratched the cat’s fluffy head and tried to not think about anything except his mother’s stories regarding proper budgeting for a production’s worth of loincloths.

The door opened again; his father’s voice said, amused, “Hello, son,” to Leo’s jacket, and a moment later Chester himself appeared: slightly greying, merry, wearing jeans and a blue knit jumper that straddled the line between avuncular Royal College of Dentistry dean and _fashionable_ avuncular Royal College of Dentistry dean. “Come here—”

The cat ran over for petting, and Leo got up for more hugging. His father felt solid and strong, clothes chilly with London air, somewhat shorter than Leo himself; Leo wanted to hold on and be held and never let that closeness go, just then.

His father patted his back, and said, in much the same way his mother had, “Are you all right? Is there anything we can do?”

“He said he’s got something to tell us,” provided Leo’s mother helpfully.

“I…” Leo said. His eyes prickled suddenly. He wasn’t sure why. “Um. Was it coffee? Why you went out?”

“Ginger.” His father, keeping up, waved a shopping bag. “For the plum and apricot crumble. And some ice cream, proper vanilla bean, and carrots. I was thinking about carrot and avocado muffins. Harry, light of backstage finances and broadswords and my life, did you remember to turn down the heat on that cobbler?”

Leo’s mother said, “I love you and you know I didn’t,” and got up to kiss him. Soundly.

Leo, who would’ve ordinarily applauded or made a joke or offered a not-serious rating of kisses, reached out and picked up wine. Took a sip.

Venison cobbler, rescued from heat, happened. So did a quick salad with a bewildering but not terrible combination of mint and poppyseed flavors, and some rye bread his father’d baked the day before, and more wine. The venison was in fact delicious, if richly and somewhat confusingly spiced. The horseradish scone topping was fine.

Leo’s father, with the tact that made him a much-beloved administrator, kept the conversation on work, students, the new laboratory building they’d be getting in the summer. Leo’s mother chatted about the theater; they both asked about _Steadfast_ , about the joy of the success and the excitement of the press tour and the premieres, about his earlier meeting and the multi-episode villainous arc he’d agreed to. They did not push; expectance hung in the air above plum and apricot crumble, topped with freshly grated ginger, but it hung there unobtrusively.

Leo’s mother, when they’d more or less finished and were picking at the last bones of the demolished crumble, said casually, “Anyone up for a family game night? Something cooperative, perhaps, solving a mystery or escaping a mystical island?” and Leo took a deep breath and said, “Yes, but first, I did have something to tell you,” and both his parents smiled at him, holding hands.

He fiddled with a fork. Made himself stop. “Er…speaking of _Steadfast_. And love stories. Between men.”

“Oh yes,” his father agreed encouragingly. “So lovely, seeing that.”

“It is, yes. And I’m proud to be part of it. Er…when I say part of it…I mean I’ve sort of met someone. Someone I, ah. Really like.”

His mother instantly put a hand out, gathered up Leo’s anxious forkless one, and said, “Oh, darling, we’re so happy for you, what’s his name? How’d you two meet? Is he also an actor, or in the industry?”

“Sam, and he’s—” Leo skidded to a halt, mouth open, every single atom quivering with multiple emotions. “That—you—you just…”

Chester and Harriet exchanged glances.

“You’re not even _surprised_ ,” Leo said.

“Well, you see,” his mother said, “the thing is, well…we already rather thought you were, er, not entirely straight, perhaps…”

“You did not! How did you know? _I_ didn’t even know!” He waved the hand not being held in his mother’s, gesture landing someplace between desperate flailing astonishment and equally desperate laughter. “Why was I the _last_ one to know?’

“To be fair,” his father put in, “we thought you did know. Given all those comments about attractive male co-stars, or that time you brought, what was his name, Matt, as a date to that awards show, and then kissed him in front of the cameras…”

“He dared me to! And I thought it’d be fun!”

“And there was the time you bought the dildos,” his mother contributed cheerily. “There were pictures in all those magazines.”

“Those were for someone else! She was embarrassed about wanting them!”

“We always hoped,” his father took up, beaming, “that you’d feel comfortable enough to tell us, someday. Not that we’d ever push, if you weren’t ready. Not at all.”

“Oh my god,” Leo said, and buried his head in both arms atop the table. “Oh my _god_.”

“We’re so very honored you’ve told us now.” His mother patted his arm. “You did say he, so were you going to tell us it’s all the men all the time, from now on, as it were, or something a bit more all-inclusive, or are you still sorting it out?”

“Oh my god, Mum.”

“As long as you’re happy and they treat you right, that’s the important thing.”

“Thanks,” Leo said into his arms and the table, and then looked up. His parents were still holding hands and radiating fondness at him. He took that in. Sat up more. “I, ah. I’m still sorting it out, but I think…probably bisexual? Or pan. It’s definitely not all the men all the time from now on, Mum, thank you for that. Though actually it kind of is, isn’t it? One specific man’s getting all of my time, so I suppose that works. But it’s something with room for being attracted to lots of people, and genders, I think.”

Saying so, he felt like himself: back to humor, back to teasing, but even more than that. He’d said it aloud, to his parents; something in his chest felt new and raw and fragile and inexpressibly overjoyed.

“Oh, _so_ lovely,” approved his mother. “And, you know, it’s not as if that’s not respectable; look at William Shakespeare, he liked both the women and the men, and he did fairly well for himself, didn’t he?”

Leo, caught between laughter and a sigh, got out, “Thanks, Mum, glad to know you think I’m on the same level as Shakespeare.”

“You’ve certainly got better hair. Though we’ve still got some pictures of you with that unfortunate bleached—”

“We don’t talk about those pictures,” Leo said. “I made you pinky swear, remember?”

“So.” His father leaned in, intrigued. “You said you met someone. His name’s Sam, is it? Tell us about him.”

“Sam, yes. He’s…” How to even start? How to explain Sam’s profession, Sam’s kindness, Sam’s ability to see right into Leo’s heart and know exactly what he’d always been needing to hear?

He said, finally, “He would like your vase. Or at least he’d understand why I like it. He makes me feel like smiling all the time.”

His mother’s expression grew softer, comprehending: happy for him.

“That,” his father said, “sounds about right, doesn’t it, Harry? Tell us more. When can we meet him?”

“We’ve only just started dating!”

“Do you know whether he likes opera? I’ve got some spare tickets to _La Cenerentola_ , if you’d like some evening excursion ideas—”

“If the two of you want to come round for supper first, I’ll make that blackberry sage sauce and roast chicken, and your mother will promise not to greet him with a rapier in hand, after that poor girl looked so startled last time, so just let us know when!”

“Behave yourselves,” Leo complained, but he was grinning: he couldn’t not. Textured gold spilled from familiar lamps, and the night tasted like apricot and ginger pudding, and he wanted all of that, wanted to bring Sam here into the land of blackberries and rapiers and love.

He’d call later, after he got home. He’d hear Sam’s voice and ask how the day was going out in Los Angeles with Colby and Jason, and Sam would hear him, every bit of apprehension and relief and profound emotion Leo didn’t say aloud.

Benvolio reappeared to beg for any last scraps, purring. Leo fed him a tiny piece of venison. “I think he’d love seeing you pose with a sword, in fact, Mum. So, first of all, he’s American—from Las Vegas—and he’s a photographer, a brilliant one—” Something of an omission there; he didn’t want his parents to worry about Sam’s profession and tabloid gossip.

But every word he’d said was true. Sam was a photographer, and Sam was brilliant, and Leo was proud to be with him. So that was that. And that was and would be real. “Here, I’ll show you some pictures he took of me and my house, look at how splendid the light is through the window, in this one…”


	7. Los Angeles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sam meets Jason and Colby, and Leo has a very good evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've managed to (more or less) catch up to my own writing, which is why this one was slower! I have some other scenes done, but all from later on...
> 
> This one was actually originally the other half of the previous chapter, but it was getting really long, so I decided it worked better split up!

The elevator proved to be smooth and swift. Sam arrived in the lobby ten minutes early—eleven-thirty, Jason’d said—and hovered beside a potted fern and a sculpted column, uncertain. Find someplace to sit? Look around? What if Jason was also here early, and was waiting for him? What if Jason couldn’t find him? Was the polished receptionist considering his scuffed Converse and several-years-old jacket and deciding whether to summon hotel security to deal with this person who plainly didn’t belong?

He inched closer to the fern. It provided no assistance. It knew it belonged here.

He wished he could feel that certain. He kind of wanted to put a hand on the ornate pot and soak up some self-assurance. But then he’d end up looking like a person who’d come into a fancy hotel lobby to fondle the foliage. And the receptionist really would call security.

He leaned a shoulder against the decorative column, experimentally. Casual. Okay. Working so far. He could watch the lobby doors from here.

A car engine purred. A streak of silver flowed up the drive. Sam did not know much about cars beyond the basics, but he could tell this one was a Ferrari, maybe from the nineteen-sixties, and beautiful. A movie star of cars. A glory of classic grace.

The owner must love it, he decided. Visible in the care and the age. Felt good, seeing that: like a little bit of optimism in the world.

The car door opened. The world’s most famous pair of shoulders emerged into sunshine. Sam leaned more weight against his sympathetic pillar, and forgot to breathe.

Jason Mirelli, in jeans and a dark green shirt that was failing to adequately contain his expanse of chest, said something to the valet, laughed, took off his sunglasses. The valet very obviously admired the car some more.

Jason said something else, turned, and jogged up steps. Toward the doors. Toward Sam.

He was even larger in person. No cinema tricks at all. Just big happy Italian-American muscle and a t-shirt with some sort of logo involving dice and tabletop gaming and a wizard. Jason was kind of a geek, Sam recalled somewhere in the stunned recesses of his head. A few nerd loves mentioned in interviews. Fantasy novels, roleplaying games, stuff like that.

Jason had _unfair_ biceps. Sam, head-over-heels in love with Leo, couldn’t help a moment of astonished staring. He figured Leo would understand.

Jason bounded through the doors, which moved rapidly out of the way, and looked around. Spotted Sam and Sam’s helpful pillar. Waved, then ran over. Sam resisted the urge to check the marble lobby floor for signs of impact.

“Hey, you’re Sam, right?” Jason held out a hand. “Leo’s Sam. Nice to meet you. I’m Jason.” His eyes were very dark, up close: rich thoughtful brown, friendly but with a suggestion of evaluation, of protectiveness. He did not mention a Las Vegas night and a bachelor party and their first encounter. Sam swallowed down nerves and did not either.

He also did _not_ briefly worry about his own hand, disappearing into that powerful one. His mouth, while trying not to say _holy shit you’re Jason Mirelli and Jason Mirelli’s muscles_ , in fact said, “Kinda guessed you were? I mean, um, the car, and the, um, never mind.”

Jason laughed—mountains rumbled, but in a nice way—and let Sam’s hand go. “It’s one of my dad’s, not mine. He just finished doing some work on the engine, and he wanted someone to drive it around for a while, and, hey, I’m not gonna say no. Come on, we’ve got a couple errands before we head over to the house.”

Jason clearly had a schedule in mind. Sam nodded, being agreeable, and then some other pieces of his brain caught up and started shrieking in pure glee. “We’re taking _that_ car?”

“We are.” Jason grinned at him. “And I drive fast. Dad taught me, though, don’t worry.”

Sam flipped through his mental celebrity index for a second, pulled up Jason’s background—Luca Mirelli, while not movie-star famous, was basically _the_ name in stunt driving, or had been, once upon a time; post-accident, trained the best _other_ names; the whole Mirelli family came with that stunt-person legacy, in varying forms—and raised eyebrows right back. “Who says I was worried?”

“Oh, good,” Jason said, “this should be _fun_ ,” and waved at the valet loyally guarding the Ferrari. “Quick errands, I promise.”

They went out the door. They got in the car. Sam tried to believe that, yes, this was him getting into a classic Ferrari with Jason Mirelli. Fucking incredible. Unreal. Maybe he should try pinching himself. Jason might notice that.

Jason did drive fast, but expertly; the Ferrari handled Los Angeles streets and corners and traffic with pleasure, and Jason had complete control, steady if mischievous as far as speed and turns. Sam hung on and felt his heartbeat pick up, exhilarated.

He said, “Can I get a picture of you and this car, or would your dad mind?”

“He’d love that.” The car in question danced around a corner, a ballerina given direction by large practiced hands. Sam wasn’t quite sure where they were going, but then again he’d mostly spent his time in LA lurking around red carpets, hotels, nightclubs, and anyplace else a photo of someone’s wardrobe malfunction might be obtainable.

Jason added, “I do want to get Colby a car. Not this one, but something fun. With some history. He doesn’t have one. Car, not history, I mean.”

“You two live in LA, and he doesn’t have a car?”

“Well…we literally just bought this house, and he’d been mostly living in London, and…” A red light paused panther speed momentarily. The Ferrari purred with goodnatured impatience.

“And he wasn’t going out much,” Jason said, very quietly, and then, swiftly, “And if he did he had a driver. He kinda always has, he grew up with that, with his parents being, y’know, who they are. He does have a driver’s license, in both countries, even, and he used to have a car, he just didn’t bother to replace it when it died.”

“Oh.” A whole other world, that one. Growing up with personal chauffeurs. Not bothering to replace cars, instead of not being able to afford to.

“I _like_ driving us places, don’t get me wrong, I’ll still do that, but I want him to have his own, too, just in case he needs to go somewhere and I’m not home.”

“And you like cars.”

“I do.” Jason did. Clearly. As well as acceleration. Practically flight. Sam smothered a laugh of sheer childhood exuberance. Jason was having a good time.

And Sam thought, watching him: Colby could still have a driver. He grew up with that, you said. You’ve got the money. But you don’t want him dependent on someone else, someone he might not know well or feel close to. You want him to feel safe as well as free.

Jason did also like cars, of course. And liked sharing that passion.

They’d ended up in a vividly artistic neighborhood, full of bookshops and art galleries and mysterious shops promising antiques and rare perfumes and curiosities. Some sort of street fair was happening, turning pavement and roads into vibrant color, creation, life under California sun. Jason drove around the back of a shop, spun the car into a spot with flair, and turned the engine off. “You can wait or come in, shouldn’t take long.”

“I’ll come with you.” Sam one hundred percent wanted to. Aside from impressing Jason with willingness, he was fascinated. Movie stars doing errands? In quirky artisanal local shops? Utterly besotted?

That last one he’d known. Everyone who’d ever seen Jason looking at Colby Kent knew. Different in person, though. More solid and unshakeable.

They went in through a back door, conveniently open. Art bloomed around them: a forest of ocean waves, glowing hibiscus, delicate ink, dancing painted humanity in every shade imaginable. Woods shaped and curved and wrapped themselves into frames: dark, light, oaken, walnut, white-painted, blonde. The air tasted of craftsmanship, dry shavings, light and heat.

Jason waved; the young woman up front waved back, said, “Right on time, as usual!” and then shouted, “Roz!” The purple streaks in her hair bounced, framing dark skin and dark sparkling eyes and dramatic bronze-and-plum eyeliner; Sam wanted to capture her in various light, motion and bracelets whirling for a camera-lens.

“Roz is in the workshop,” she added to Jason, coming over. “They’ll be out in a sec. Who’d you bring?”

“Sam,” Jason said. “He’s good with a camera. Visiting for a while. Sam, this is Lena, she’s great at design. Can I see them?”

“Oh, yeah, here, got it—” Lena found shelves, sorted through wrapped artworks and their labels, found a decently large wrapped package. “Came out fantastic. You’re such a sap. I love it. He is,” she added to Sam, “ _such_ a sap. Romantic. Gives the rest of us hope, y’know?”

Sam, unsure whether he was meant to respond to this—he’d only just met Jason—opened his mouth without a real plan, at which point the aforementioned Roz came in through a side door and said, “I swear you get bigger every time I see you, how’s Colby, who’s this?”

Roz was tall, tanned, in some indeterminate older-than-Sam age range, and attractive in a wiry beachgoing way, sunstreaks and dust in short brown hair; they had on rainbow earrings and an outfit that suggested they’d been getting some woodworking done, over in the workshop, and they looked at Jason with both appreciation and some stern admonition about muscles versus objects of art.

Jason laughed, ran through introductions again, and said Colby was wonderful. Lena opened up the package for him to look at; they all did, for a moment. Aged paper and faded watercolor glimmered up, surrounded by graceful carved wood and shining glass; centuries long gone watched them back.

“This one was such fun,” Roz said. “Paper that delicate, and matching some of the curves of the sketches in the frame, the way we talked about…I love the way this came out. Do keep us in mind for anything else you pick up.”

The set of sketches glowed in the shop’s kindly light. Two of them were simpler: antique centuries-old ship designs, masts and rigging and cutaways to show the decks, the holds, the mechanics. Lines flowed across worn paper, building a vessel to race the waves and Napoleon’s guns; old-fashioned handwriting made notes, drew arrows, explained for the future. The third was what looked like the same ship, but hand-drawn and colored with a tinted wash: floating in a busy harbor, kissed by ocean, preparing for sail and war and the mission she’d been born for.

Sam choked on history and a love story. “That’s not—you didn’t find the _actual_ —”

“No,” Jason put in, an earthquake of ruefulness. “None of Will Crawford’s sketches of the _Steadfast_ —if he did any—survived. We have some of the letters—I don’t mean us personally, they’re in an archive somewhere in Bath—and some of his scientific notes, but not much. No, this is the H.M.S. _Henrietta_. Not all that distinguished, she didn’t ever do much, but her first captain wanted to be an artist, or at least he drew that third one himself.”

The perspective wasn’t perfect. A line or two noticeably crooked. Amateur in execution. But someone had loved that ship, his ship. Had drawn her, on a sunny day, with all the pride he’d felt in his command.

Jason finished, ears a little pink, “These weren’t even all that expensive; there’re better versions out there, other ships, better preserved. They’re not museum quality. But they are original, and we’d met that rare book and manuscript guy at Andy’s party, and when these came up, he called me, and I had to say yes. For the house. For Colby. They’re not exactly a surprise—he knows I bought them—but he doesn’t know what they’ll look like all framed and finished.”

Sam opened his mouth, closed it, and asked, “Can I take a picture of you real quick? With those? Nothing else,” he added to Roz and Lena. “Unless you don’t mind.”

“We don’t mind.” Roz beamed. “Go on.”

“Me?” Jason looked at the watercolor again, big hand brushing a foam-white frame-curlicue. The white wasn’t smooth or pure; it had faint lines too, echoing water, ink, age. “Here?”

“Talking about Colby,” Sam said. “Please.” He had his small camera in one hand. Slightly better in low light than his phone, though he’d still need to do some corrections. Wouldn’t matter. He could see it.

“Um,” Jason said. “Okay? What do you want me to do?”

“Just that. Hold that one. Look at it. Think about Colby. Giving it to him. Like that—” Perfect, perfect; almost perfect, at first, as Jason looked his way a bit uncertainly and then looked down.

And large shoulders softened; Jason’s thumb rubbed over wood, and the tilt of his head changed, and his smile got softer too, more private, thinking or remembering or hoping. He stood there in a local artist’s shop, a man wanting to make his partner smile, an action hero with a giant heart on display, holding an artifact made of emotion in one hand.

Sam let the background blur, focused on the crinkle of unfolded brown paper and the shimmer of the ship and the line of Jason’s gaze and the upward drift of Jason’s lips, and caught each second of simple straightforward love.

Because they’d said he could, he pulled back a little and brought the backdrop of the shop in too: Jason Mirelli outlined in art, in stories, in color, here on this LA afternoon.

Jason glanced up, and Sam caught that too: the wry quirk of his mouth, the lifted eyebrows. “Never thought I was the photogenic one.”

“You are,” Sam said. It was true. Jason didn’t have Colby’s wide-eyed adorableness or camera-beckoning aristocratic-rainbow fashion sense, but did have intriguing shapes and motions, paradoxical and fascinating. Lots of breadth and height, lots of tenderness, that once-broken nose, deep soulful gaze, more lines and textures. “Trust me.” And then he cringed, and added, “I don’t mean Colby’s not! Just, um, you are. Too. Also, I mean.” Oh god.

Jason laughed. Muscles flexed in amusement. “Got it. Thanks. We should get going, we’ve got one more stop.” He also said thank you to Roz and Lena, handed over a credit card, collected rebundled art, and ushered Sam back out the back door. “Sorry about the errands.”

“I don’t mind,” Sam said. “Kind of fun. They’re nice.” He meant the people, not the errands; Jason figured it out with no hesitation.

“Yeah, they are. Lena comes into the same game shop I go to, out here, and we got to talking.” The Ferrari roared to life with eagerness. “Okay, bakery next. Then home. Where, just so you know, we don’t have a ton of furniture yet.”

“Fine by me. I can sit on floors.”

“We can do a little better than that,” Jason observed wryly, and the car leapt ahead into California sun, catching light.

They swung by a bakery—also local, or at least not a name Sam recognized—and picked up miniature cupcakes, an assortment of impressive flavors: blueberry cream, chocolate cherry mocha, tiramisu, cinnamon dulce de leche. Jason was friends with these owners too, because Jason was friends with everyone, in a broad-shouldered calm and comfortable sort of way. Muscles on display, power evident, love of Colby also evident, everything laid-back in the same sense a lion might relax when happy. Jason would pick up cupcakes and artwork with hearts in his eyes, and would defend Colby with every heroic inch if necessary, Sam concluded.

They fit in a quick stop for coffee at a Starbucks drive-through. Jason asked whether Sam wanted anything; Sam panicked momentarily about whether or not to accept, and settled on simple straightforward black. Jason acquired something very large and iced, with white chocolate and hazelnut, and explained, “It’s for Colby really. But I like hazelnut too. We usually share.”

“Adorable of you,” Sam said. “Like _Lady and the Tramp_. The spaghetti scene.” He actually did think it was adorable. John Kill, with that action-hero franchise at his back, bought sweetly flavored coffee to share with his partner.

“Thanks. You okay holding cupcakes? We’ll be home in just a couple of minutes.”

“I’m good. A whole couple of minutes? Not like thirty seconds?”

Jason grinned. The Ferrari picked up speed. “I see why Leo likes you.”

“Because I don’t mind you showing off?”

“Because you don’t get scared easily,” Jason said, “and because he needs that, I think. Someone who takes him seriously, who’ll stick around. Hey, this is a fun corner—”

It was. So was the whole last winding curving drive, heading up the low hill. There was a gate, and then more of a drive, under tall waving palm trees; the approach was green and brown and blue, lush in California colors under a wide sunny sky, and neatly landscaped and maintained.

The house saw them coming, and waved along with the palm trees. Beautiful graceful architecture beckoned in curved roof tiles and wrought iron, a graceful splash of imagined castle somehow transported to Southern California; front steps formed a waterfall of pale stone, and the driveway pooled into a curve of homecoming off to the side. Sam’s first impression was of stylish but understated fantasy: character woven into tall strong bones and decorative detail, but not huge nor glitteringly ostentatious nor even particularly imposing.

It looked like a house, he thought, not a proclamation of mansion. A home.

Jason’s words rattled around in his head, in his heart. Leo needing someone. Leo needing him. Jason saying so, looking at him.

He hoped he was the person Leo needed, the person Leo could believe in. God, he hoped.

Jason let the car race its shadow right up to the garage, and came to a flawless halt a breath away from collision with the closed door. “Sorry again in advance about the lack of furniture. Did I mention we literally just bought this place? The kitchen was more of a priority.”

“Hey, I’m good with helping build bookshelves if you need a hand.”

Jason laughed. “Careful, or I’ll say yes to that one. Here, I can take the cupcakes. Come meet Colby.”

They went in through a side gate—more swirling fanciful wrought iron twirled up in greeting—and a side door, not the dramatic front; Jason fished out keys while juggling gifts. Sam’s stomach performed a sudden lurch as reality sank in all over again.

He’d managed to get used to Jason, mostly, during the drive. Colby Kent, though—that name, that presence—

“Love you,” Jason shouted in the direction of the kitchen, balancing packages on their way through a box-laden floor and a single tall dark bookshelf and a floor-lamp with a forest of willow-branch lights, “and I brought coffee! And Sam!”

“Ah, my triumphant hero!” Colby popped out of what looked like either a very big pantry or a small second kitchen, ran across the open room and the box-strewn expanse, and flung himself at Jason and coffee.

And Sam realized that if Jason’d been happy earlier, that was nothing at all compared to now. Pure joy lit up deep brown eyes and smile-crinkles and every melting of giant muscles. Completely home, here and now, at the sight of the man he loved.

Jason, still holding presents, folded both arms around Colby. Leaned down, and they both got lost in a kiss: tender and adoring and entirely honest, unselfconscious about emotion and passion and pleasure in each other. Colby’s hand slid up to the back of Jason’s neck, intimate and natural, holding him there.

Sam shifted weight. Wanted to preserve that moment, that kiss, in art: simple clear devotion, the mundane—packages in hands, coffee delivered—combined with the wondrous.

He also wanted to talk to Leo. He wanted to kiss Leo, to come home to Leo. The want stabbed through his entire body, and left him breathless.

He glanced around the house, giving the reunion some privacy. The ceilings were high, and the walls were pale and mostly undecorated as yet, though a tantalizing wild knot of abstract steampunk brass and copper shimmered in coiling decoration over in the kitchen. A large canvas leaned against the single bookshelf in the living room; Sam couldn’t quite see the art, only the edge of colors: grey, gold, blue. The back of the house opened up gleaming glass windows and doors: the view stretched out, billowing with California light, gazing down the hill. The yard wasn’t quite finished: some bare landscaping lingered in shades of dirt, and he could also see the corner of a swimming pool peeking over, blue and inviting.

He glanced back at Colby and Jason. Jason still had both arms around Colby, and was murmuring something inaudible that made Colby laugh and blush and retort, “Of course you are, love, always. With cinnamon. Or even ginger.”

“Hmm,” Jason said, “later, maybe—”

“Oh!” Colby, no longer being thoroughly kissed, had remembered Sam’s presence. “Oh, no, my apologies, Jason did introduce you, I’m so sorry, hello, I’m Colby, and you must be Sam! Did you like the car? She’s such fun, especially when Jason’s driving, though of course we’ll give her back next week, when we see Jason’s parents for brunch. Oh, sorry, come in and have food!”

Colby Kent. Sam was meeting Colby Kent. Award-winning actor, producer, and writer Colby Kent. In a half-furnished newly-bought house. While Colby paused to consume a large amount of iced coffee and share a smile with Jason.

While Sam tried to process the whirlwind of words and the moment and his whole damn life, Colby went on, “I’m very sorry about the lack of furniture, but we have got the bar stools, and we’re getting the sofa and chairs tomorrow, and can I get you anything else to drink, or a coffee refill? And how’s Leo? Not that we’re not seeing him soon, but of course you’ll have heard from him more recently, I’d think? Is the hotel all right?”

Sam fought the urge to stop and breathe out of sympathy on Colby’s behalf. Or maybe his own. This was him, talking to—being talked at—by Colby Kent. How?

Colby in person was also taller than Sam, because both movie stars were, but an inch or two shorter than Jason, and thinner, built like a swimmer or dancer instead of a mountainside. He had both sleeves of his violet cardigan shoved up, baring graceful forearms; he also had what looked like ink on the side of one hand, a swoop of incongruous messy indigo. His eyes were and weren’t the famous film-poster shade: even more vivid in person, and more complicated, with darker and lighter blue mingling together.

Colby did not hold out a hand, but that was fine; Sam, like most people, knew that Colby Kent did not like being touched, though he’d never heard any specific details. He hadn’t expected a handshake or anything. And Colby was already doing him a massive favor just by agreeing to this.

Monumental. Unbelievable. Other adjectives involving everlasting gratitude.

Colby did not, apparently, mind being touched by Jason. One expansive shield-wall arm looped around slim shoulders and kept exuberance tucked in close. Colby kept talking. “If anything’s not to your liking, let me know, and I’ll try to sort it out for you? And thank you for your part in delivering the artwork! Shall we see how it all came out? I haven’t seen it finished, and I’m sure it’ll be perfect for that wall over by the fireplace.”

Sam looked at the two of them together. Ached to pull out the camera on the spot: documenting their easy comfort, long lines, matching and not, complementing each other flawlessly, with the welcoming domesticity of their home as a backdrop…

Belatedly, he remembered how to make words. Colby’d asked a question or seven. What’d they all been, again? “Um. No worries about the furniture, the hotel’s great—like, really great, I mean, wow—I didn’t do much about the artwork, that was Jason, I just came along—Leo’s…” He waved a hand. “Leo. He’s…” What words would be enough? “He’s fantastic. He says hi.”

“Leo _is_ fantastic.” Colby, with Jason’s hand in his and cupcakes in the other, headed back toward the kitchen and swept them all along with him. Then began getting out trays laden with lusciously arranged food. “He’s always such fun to be around. Making other people smile, you know…it’s such a gift. He’s got a lovely heart, even if he does cover it up with on-set pranks involving fifty balloons and Tom Bradshaw’s car. Butternut squash and caramelized onion bite? Or roasted strawberry-balsamic tarts? And those little tea sandwiches have mint and date paste and goat cheese in, they’re a bit experimental, but I like how they came out, I think. You said you weren’t allergic to anything, correct?”

“Yeah. I mean I’m not.” Okay, he could manage keeping up. Mostly. “Can I help with anything?”

“Oh—thank you, but I think we’ve got it.” Strawberries and squash bites and tea sandwiches had exploded across the kitchen island in flavorful extravagance. Jason let go of Colby long enough to get out and pour what looked like sparkling water for all of them, and unobtrusively set the first glass near his other half’s left hand. Colby looked up from miniature sandwiches to smile at him, which brought even more sunshine into the kitchen: affection and appreciation and adoration so bright it outshone the day.

Colby said, “We were planning to cook properly for you for dinner—Jason has plans involving orange chipotle chicken and a marinade, and I’m decent at risotto, though mine’s not as good as Jason’s grandmother’s, of course—”

“Might argue that one,” Jason said. “Maybe. Depends on the day. She was impressed by yours.”

Colby did some more smiling at him for that. The universe got newer and more shiny. “Thank you for saying so. I did mean to apologize, I’ve been a bit busy all morning so I haven’t had time to do much about lunch, though there’s homemade sourdough bread and I was thinking of something involving varieties of grilled cheese? I do love cheese. And then there are cupcakes for dessert, or for now, whatever order you’d prefer.”

Sam looked at the kitchen island, or what could be seen of it under various serving trays, and couldn’t stop himself from saying, “This is you not doing much?”

“Oh, well…it _isn’t_ much, really. Jason helped with quite a lot before going to find you. We like cooking together. So that was mostly done already. And then I had a terribly annoying telephone call—which honestly could’ve been worse, it’s just that I’d been worrying about it beforehand—and then I tried to do a bit of calligraphy to relax…” Colby glanced at his own hand and the indigo streak; one corner of his mouth quirked. “And of course I smudged it when Jill texted and I had to grab the phone…”

Jason caught his hand, then caught him, and reeled him in close. Colby settled some weight against his bulwark; Jason’s whole body had snapped to attention, a fortress poised to defend and guard and keep a treasure safe.

Jason ran a large hand over Colby’s head, just once—aware of an audience but also not caring, because Colby needed care—and grumbled, “I’d’ve talked to your dad so you didn’t have to…”

“Yes, but I’m the one on that children’s literacy program steering committee.” Colby tipped his head into the petting. “Though perhaps you should’ve been there. I could’ve used a loyal knight. I’m not good at saying no, and I think I might’ve agreed to some sort of appearance at a public library in Washington D.C. I don’t mind the library part.”

“No, you mind being your dad’s trophy that he likes to call up and show off.” Jason touched Colby’s cheek; Colby shut both eyes, then opened them, wordless and trusting. “I’ll do it instead of you. Or at least with you. Whatever you decide. Cupcake? Cinnamon dulce de leche?”

“You do know what I like.” Colby accepted sugar, delivered with a kiss. “What I love. Yes, thank you.”

Sam perched on a bar stool. “You do calligraphy?” He knew Colby did; that’d been in some of the _Steadfast_ interviews and press releases, trivia and tantalizing behind-the-scenes details. Colby had done most of the handwriting for the film: Will Crawford’s letters and scientific notes and spycraft ciphers, and also labels on boxes and addresses on letters and Stephen Lanyon’s captain’s log.

Colby turned his way. Visibly perked up, diverted by the question. “I do! It’s only a hobby, in spare moments, but I enjoy it. It’s always so marvelous when it comes out well—a sort of meeting of the practical and the artistic, and it seems to make people smile. I’ve still got the pen I used on set, for _Steadfast_ ; it writes so beautifully, so smooth and clear, and it’s got such good memories, and the props department said I could have it if I wanted. I should pick up a new notebook for practicing; I have some gold ink I want to play with.”

Jason, looking at Sam, offered a very fractional head-tip: acknowledgement and approval. The two of them in agreement about protecting, or distracting, talkative blue eyes from potentially painful parental topics. “Already bought you one. Should be here tomorrow. Did you want to see how the art came out?”

“Oh, yes, very much.” Colby licked cinnamon frosting from fingers. Sam ate another tea sandwich, happily. The mint and date and goat cheese combination was a discovery, and a tasty one.

Colby opened up brown crinkly paper. And then caught his breath. “Oh…oh, Jason, they’re wonderful. Well, of course they are, you have such good taste, but…they came out so…”

“Beautiful,” Jason said. He was looking at Colby. “Yeah.”

“The weathered quality there, in the wood they’ve chosen…that just picks up the sense of time and commitment and dedication, doesn’t it…such a story of craftsmanship, in the ship herself, in the love of her captain, in the art of finding the right framing to hold it all…”

“Sam,” Jason said.

Sam, not expecting direct address, hastily swallowed a strawberry. “Um. Yeah.”

Jason did another small head-tip: toward Colby, who was communing with art.

“Oh,” Sam said, “right, of course, yeah,” and fumbled for his camera. “Matching yours.”

Colby looked up. “Yours?”

“Sam took pictures of me,” Jason said, “picking these up.”

“Colby, stay right there,” Sam said. “Hold that first one up again.” Through the camera lens, Colby’s long fingers mirrored the lines of the frame: elegant, mobile, permanently excited about ship designs and amateur watercolors and the stories of the world. The waves of Colby’s hair stood up and out against the kitchen window, becoming a halo, fuzzy with light.

He rethought his own words. Giving orders. To Colby Kent.

Who had obligingly lifted art, cradling the watercolor with delight. “Like this?”

“Yes,” Sam said, “yes, like that—look down—and a little bit toward me, but pretend I’m not here.”

Colby laughed—Sam caught that too, Colby unguarded and amused—and gazed down at history and connections across time and space, holding the frame with exquisite grace. He was luminous on camera, all cheekbones and pointed chin and wayward hair and enormous eyes, different from Jason but equally tempting as a subject. Colby knew how to pose, to find angles and light, and wore emotion in the way that’d won him so many awards: expressive and natural and easy to fall into.

Sam took a few just to be sure, though he had a favorite: Colby in the wake of laughter, smiling. Brown paper and strawberry tarts added texture and color to the story, in the foreground.

He put down the camera. “Um. Sorry about the sort of photo shoot directions, there.”

“Oh, no, that was thoroughly helpful, and you’re the professional! May I see?”

Sam flipped back to his favorite, held it out.

“You look so happy.” Jason put an arm back around Colby. “Happy about art, and history.”

“And about you, and you having done this for us, for this house.” Colby looked over at Sam. “You’re so very talented. Such a small moment, but you’ve got so much in here, the emotion and the gift and the glimpse of more, a whole scene, with the tarts and the unwrapping, and I want to know more. That is, obviously I do know more, I’m in it, but if I were looking at this in an exhibition or a display book, without being me, as it were.”

Sam’s brain tripped over itself. Colby Kent was complimenting him. With evident sincerity. Eyes all blue and generous and full of conviction, giving away words like _exhibition_ and _talented_ as if Sam ought to be hearing them every day. “Um. Thank you? I. Um. You make it easy. Want to see Jason?”

“Entirely yes!”

He showed Colby his favorite of that set also. Colby actually did a little fingertips-to-mouth gesture, soft and wide-eyed. “Oh, that’s…oh, look at that…”

“You can have prints of any that you want,” Sam said, because Colby had gone worryingly speechless, drinking in Jason on the camera’s screen, Jason with a small smile and one big hand holding art, a man in love. The real-life Jason was blushing, but in an embarrassedly proud way: a knight who’d pleased his liege lord. “I like that one too.”

“Oh, my…” Colby put out a hand as if wanting to touch the camera, then took it back, penitently. “I’d like both of ours. Next to each other on display, perhaps.”

“So,” Jason said. “Logistics.” His tone said more: Colby was happy, and therefore this was happening, so that Colby would continue to be happy. Colby momentarily ducked out from under his arm to open the refrigerator; Jason went on, “And also lunch. But plans, first. The rest of the bookshelves for this room should be showing up today, so that’s mostly what we were planning to do, but I don’t know how interesting that is for you. And I think we said we didn’t expect you to have to work today.”

Sam took in the concept of being paid to _not_ work, as such, for a day. Or tried to. No. Couldn’t do it. “It is interesting, though, I think? The two of you moving in, making this place your home. I don’t mind helping, or grabbing some shots of that for you. You might want them, later.”

Colby resurfaced from the refrigerator with at least four different types of cheese. “I would, if you wouldn’t mind!”

“I offered,” Sam pointed out, but gently. He was starting to think that Colby Kent at home was different from any version ever seen in public: talkative not just for press and publicity about projects, but overflowingly enthusiastic about everything from cheese to photographs, and also both more vulnerable and stronger than anyone knew. Colby hadn’t hid a need to lean on Jason after what sounded like a stressful phone call, and worried about not doing enough for people, and listened to directions promptly; Colby had also in five minutes shared more personal information than most interviewers ever got, having apparently decided that if Leo and Jason both approved, Sam must be worth trusting.

Kind of dizzying, that. Being trusted by Colby Kent. Sitting on Colby’s bar stool, eating Colby’s food.

He hoped he was worthy of that. He wanted to be.

“Anyway,” he added, “that’s more or less what we talked about, as far as me getting to document this week with you? Domestic life, daily life…at home, and at your premiere…just let me know when and where to show up, or if there’s something you don’t want me there for. Anything you want.”

“Leo will be here the day after tomorrow.” Colby looked around for bread; Jason had already gotten it out. “So of course you’ll want to spend some time together, so we won’t expect you to do much that day, which is fine, because that afternoon we have a meeting with Jill and Andy over at the Raven Studios production offices, about the possible next project, and I think we’re supposed to be keeping those discussions confidential so the announcement’s a surprise—not that I’d mind having you there, but it might be best to not bring a person with a camera into the room. So you and Leo can enjoy yourselves.” His voice sounded innocent, but his eyes danced, under lifted eyebrows.

Colby was evidently a lot less precious and a lot more capable of innuendo than anyone would ever believe. “I’ll tell him you said we should. He’ll be thrilled.”

Colby’s eyes lit up even more. “Feel free to tell him the offer about gay sex advice still stands, not that you’ll need it, but please make a note of his expression when you say that. For me.”

“And the world thinks you’re fluffy and harmless.” Sam saluted him with a strawberry tart. “Well played.” He also had the impression that Colby rather enjoyed having someone not defaulting to either overly protective or overly deferential upon first meeting. “So tomorrow I’ll come along while you go furniture shopping, like your email said, and today we’ll set up some bookshelves? Sounds good.”

Jason said, “Colby said out loud, during one of the big group interviews for the London press, that he’d be happy to sit on my lap if there weren’t enough chairs. Everyone thought he was just being polite and sweet and, y’know, comfortable with me.” He was eating one of the caramelized onion bites, and leaned over to feed one to Colby.

“All of that was true.” Colby ate the bite, and flipped an absolutely mouthwatering grilled cheese sandwich over, at the stove. “It’s just that another truth happened to involve the position we’d been in two hours earlier, in bed.”

“Impressive.” Sam picked up another tart. They were fantastic. He’d have to get up early and find the hotel’s gym for a workout. He didn’t even care.

“As are you, you understand.” Colby regarded the grilled cheese, visibly approved, slid it onto a plate. Jason sliced it, making stretchy cheese paradise happen, and then put it in front of Sam, which made every atom of Sam’s body quiver with the desire to consume it on the spot and not wait for his hosts.

Colby paused, second sandwich begun. His eyes were merry, but serious under that. “Leo doesn’t generally ask for help. Not when it’s important. As I’m sure you’re aware. So for him to ask…he cares for you very deeply, you know. Because he _does_ care, so very very deeply, about people. He has a huge heart, and it’s more lonely than he lets on, and we want him to be happy.”

That wasn’t a warning, or at least not given as one. It was a simple statement of fact: Colby—and Jason—cared about Leo’s happiness, and wanted to be sure that Sam knew how important this was.

The simplicity of this statement made it more powerful than any more threatening phrasing would’ve been. It plunged through all Sam’s defenses like an arrow, delivered with a spatula in one hand and the scents of toasted sourdough and molten cheeses in the air.

He cleared his throat. “I care about him. Very much.”

“Of course you do,” Colby said, as if that was never in doubt, and went back to kitchen wizardry.

“He’s the best person I’ve ever met. The kindest. Even when he knows people take it as a joke. Especially when people think he’s just making jokes. I never want him to feel lonely.” He met Colby’s eyes, and Jason’s, in turn. “I want to make him happy.”

“Oh, good,” Jason said, “we’re all agreed on that, then,” and fed Colby half of a cupcake, this one blueberries and cream, and then ate the other half in one bite.

Sunshine spilled through the kitchen window, and sizzles echoed from the stove, and book-boxes watched them indulgently from piles. The afternoon, the future, shaped itself in concurrence and gold, in tarts and cupcakes, in coffee and shared pleasures.

Agreement, Sam repeated silently. Himself, and Colby Kent, and Jason Mirelli. All together. Here, on Leo’s side.

He still couldn’t quite believe it all was real, but if it was, it was everything: hope and a future and love, because he did love Leo, and Leo’s friends loved Leo, and so maybe they were Sam’s friends now too. Maybe this could all be true.

Maybe there was a universe in which Sam Hernandez-Blake, freelance tabloid photographer, fell in love with Leo Whyte and was loved in return, and could eat homemade tea sandwiches while sitting in Colby Kent and Jason Mirelli’s kitchen. And Colby and Jason had loved his first few snapshots of them.

Maybe, he thought. Maybe. And something fluttered in his chest: lifting, like wings, like hope.

He pulled out his phone. Took a quick picture of the feast spread out across the countertop, sent it to Leo. _You were right about the food. It’s like a celebratory banquet over here._

He didn’t expect a quick response, since he knew Leo was busy—with a momentous announcement, needing space, needing to talk to parents—but got one almost immediately. _Unfair of you all, having strawberry tarts without me. Unjust. Send me one. Say hello to our lovebirds for me._

 _I’ll see what I can do about saving you some. How’s it going?_ Jason and Colby had become distracted by kissing again, along with some sort of discussion about Colby needing to eat more than a bite or two out of Jason’s sandwich, if not a whole one of his own.

_Excellent. We’re escaping a sinking island with magical artifacts at the moment. Also I told them. Mum and Dad want to cook for you and take you to the opera. Warning you now. Details later._

_Glad it went well. Tell me about it tonight?_

Leo paused before answering. Sam wondered whether that was surprise at someone hearing the relief under the cooking and opera, or whether Leo had just been distracted by a tabletop game. After a few long seconds _I will. I swear_ , popped up. Plus a heart. A pink one.

Sam looked at the heart, thought about messages and flippancy and loneliness and buried emotions, and answered, _How’d you know?_

_?_

_My heart. Yours. You got it_. Cheesy? Maybe, yeah. But Leo, he thought, would like cheesy. And honest.

Leo paused again, just long enough for Sam to second-guess his own instincts. And then a picture turned up. Leo. Sitting at a cozy table, backdrop indistinctly homey and colorful. Laughing, happy, his upward swoop of blond hair just a little rumpled, eyes as fluttery as Sam’s chest felt. Holding up both hands: forming a heart. The message that arrived after said _Sorry it’s a bit out of focus, Mum took it!_

_It’s perfect. Thanks._

_You are,_ Leo answered. _And your heart. Which is mine now. Insert evil laughter here. Oops, my turn! I’ll call you when I’m home._

Sam, after some consideration, replied with a gif. Of Leo. In full evil space wizard costume. Waving a melodramatic staff, with the devastating smirk that’d launched the fandom into the stratosphere.

Leo sent back _MY WISH IS YOUR COMMAND, MINION._

_Quoting yourself, or was that an idea for later?_

_Maybe both!_ Plus a winking face. Plus one more heart. Sam figured that was more or less a sign-off, and he didn’t want to keep Leo from a family game night; he set his phone down and looked up.

Colby and Jason were grinning at him. A third grilled cheese had happened, which meant Jason had won that discussion; Jason’s arms were around Colby, who leaned back against him.

Sam said, “So Leo says hi, and he wants a strawberry tart.”

“If we don’t have any left when he gets here,” Colby said, “we can always make more.”

Leo, back at home, shut the door, slumped back against it for a second, shook his head, and laughed at himself and his unnecessary worrying. He’d done it. He’d said it. And everything was good—everything was fantastic, including the leftover apricot and ginger crumble he’d been sent home with—

His parents loved him. And wanted to love Sam.

He wanted to jump up and down and shriek in pure excitement. He wanted to tackle Sam onto his sofa and have incredible mind-blowing sex right there on the spot. He wanted to run out and audition for a role, any role, something big and epic and passionate and possibly bisexual. He could do that right now. He could do anything.

He took off his jacket. Spun it around a finger. Did a quick unchoreographed tango with it across his living room, just because. Shiny blue fabric rippled, getting into the swing of congratulations. It didn’t mind him humming out loud, even if he wasn’t sure exactly what tune he was aiming for.

Both of them breathless and giddy, he left the jacket on a chair, wandered into the kitchen, put away leftovers, checked the time. Late, but not too late; after midnight, because successfully escaping the tabletop game’s doomed island while carrying magical artifacts had taken some time, but that hadn’t been unexpected. Anyway it’d only be a bit after four in the afternoon, across an ocean.

He hoped Sam was having a good day. He hoped everything was going well. He wanted his friends and his—his boyfriend, and oh that was the best word in the universe, just now—to get along and be happy.

He held onto his giddiness, his anticipation, like a secret: a hot glowing private knowledge of joy that raced along his veins, his bones, each heartbeat.

Just to prolong that feeling, he went and made tea. The scents of lemon and orange made him smile; the heat of the cup, one of his old-fashioned pretty china set with the roses, warmed his hands. Sam had liked that, he recalled. He wasn’t sure why, other than the obvious—it was a lovely cup, and tea was nice and cozy—but Sam very definitely had approved.

He took his tea upstairs, and deliberately changed out of nice shirt and trousers into loose autumn-orange pajama trousers and a long-sleeved shirt with a misprint in his mother’s theatre’s name, because she’d ended up giving that batch away and they were extremely comfortable. He pushed up the sleeves.

He settled down on his bed, found a blanket, hugged one knee to his chest just because. He felt shivers of elation scamper down his spine, under his skin, setting off tiny exquisite fireworks.

He picked up his phone. Called Sam.

Sam took a second to answer, and sounded a bit out of breath. “You’re here! Are you home? How’d it go?”

“Everything I could’ve hoped for.” He had the phone on speaker; he picked up his tea, liking the sensation against his hands. “What on earth were you up to?”

“Colby and Jason have a lot of books. And a lot of new shelves, now. I was helping sort science fiction. And taking some pictures of them getting distracted by stories.” Sam’s voice echoed oddly; Leo, curious, asked, “Where are you?”

“What’s going to be a guest bedroom. No furniture yet. Colby told me very sweetly that I should go and have some privacy. He’s way too good at sounding innocent while meaning something completely different.”

“No one ever believes me when I say that!”

“I do, if that helps.” Sam’s voice was soothing and low and loyal; Leo wanted to listen to him forever. “They’re really great. Just the nicest people ever. It’s like…I keep thinking neither of them’s actually real, they just walked out of a romance novel, something made up, y’know? They’re planning to cook dinner for me. After they made lunch and tea and tarts. I don’t know how to say thank you enough.”

Leo had a sip of tea, liking sweet citrus and herbal flavors. “As far as thank-you gifts, they both enjoy books. And statues of dragons. And cheese. Real cheese, not statues of cheese. Though they might enjoy that as well.”

“I meant you, you know. Well, them too. But mostly you.”

“I didn’t do much.” He tipped his head back against the headboard, eyes shut: just focusing on Sam’s voice, and heat like spreading butter—or perhaps cheese, delicious and golden. “You did. Showing them how good you are.” He meant as a person, not only as a photographer; he hoped that came through.

“Oh, Leo.” Sam sighed; a brief noise suggested he’d moved or sat down. Leo pictured him: sitting on the floor in an empty but friendly room, hair as touchable as ever, maybe some smudges of dust on his arms from sorting books, golden-brown gaze fondly scolding. “Take the compliment.”

“Was it one? You were talking about cheese.”

“I wouldn’t be here without you and you know it. Tell me about your parents. No, wait. Tell me how you’re feeling.”

“How I’m feeling?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh. I…that is, I…I made tea. We successfully escaped a sinking island. I’ve got leftover pudding for tomorrow. My toes’re warm.”

“All good, but not an answer.”

“Oh…well…” He took a breath, let it out. Let himself listen to Sam, who knew him. “I’m happy. Relieved, and feeling a bit foolish about having been nervous in the first place, but…mostly just happy. All over.”

“I’m happy,” Sam said softly, “for you.” He sounded like it; he sounded pleased that Leo’d been honest. “Tell me about it?”

“I said I would,” Leo said, and did, cat-petting and tabletop gaming and asymmetrical vases included. He talked for longer than he’d meant to, but Sam was a good listener, not interrupting but making encouraging sounds, asking questions, being present. Leo finished hopefully, “They really do want to meet you. If you want to, I mean. No pressure. I know this is all a bit fast and you’re awfully busy.”

“I’d be honored,” Sam said immediately. “Said so before, didn’t I? If you’re sure. I know I’m not exactly…I’m not the kind of guy your parents hope you’ll bring home.”

“You mean kind, talented, devoted to your family, and patient with me? Mum and Dad already adore you, you see.”

“Leo,” Sam said again, half a sigh but not a real protest. “You look at the world and see everything good…”

“You,” Leo said. “You make it better.” That admission was more real, all at once, than he’d planned. “I’m in bed, you know. What were we saying about me riding things?”

Sam’s first answer became inarticulate sputtering. “You—I—I’m in Jason and Colby’s house! I can’t—that’s—”

“They wouldn’t mind. But I was mostly teasing you.”

“Were you?”

“I’d never ask you for something you didn’t want to do. And you’re occupied with bookshelves.”

“Hmm.” Sam shifted position. Leo, sitting up in bed, heard the thoughtful noise, considered his own suggestion, and all at once found himself half-hard and growing more so. His cock stirred, rubbed by pajama pants; he recalled Sam’s touch, Sam’s kisses.

Sam said, “Mostly teasing, you said. But you want that.”

“I don’t need to get off via phone sex.”

“You need some taking care of, though.” Convinced of this, now: Sam’s voice held no doubt, and assumed command. “Kind of a big day. And you should get to feel good. A reward. I won’t do anything on this end, but you can.”

“You don’t need to—”

“You deserve it.”

Leo started to protest. Found himself shaky, wanting, yearning all over. Inarticulate lapidary emotions collided and swirled: desire, astonishment, and a strange pleasurable softening, as if he’d always needed to hear that, and now he only needed to hear it more, to let Sam tell him he deserved this, he could have this, he could feel good, and he trusted Sam about that.

“Leo?”

“I…forgot how to think. What do you want me to do?” His cock pushed up against fabric; he did not touch it yet. Liquid sweetness gathered pleasantly at the base, in his balls, in the sudden clench of his hole. His body wanted Sam.

“You okay?”

“More than. I believe you’re correct and I deserve an orgasm or two.”

Sam laughed. “You’re perfect, babe. What’re you wearing?”

“Ah…pajamas? No underwear.”

“Even more perfect. Shirt off, grab your lube—we’re gonna make this quick, but I wish we had more time—”

“I know,” Leo agreed. “So do I.” Shirt off; his bare chest tingled in night air. He shoved down his pants, lube now perched beside his tea on the bedside table. Bottle and cup smirked at him. “I can be quick.”

“You can,” Sam said, “because I’m going to tell you to. You remember last time, on the phone?”

“When you made me, ah…hurt my own cock? Only it didn’t really hurt. I liked it.” He had. He squirmed against his bed; arousal dripped from his tip, smearing over his stomach.

“I know you did. But no, not that. The part when I told you that wasn’t _your_ nice pretty cock anymore, it was mine, the way those’re my fingers fucking you, and when you come it’s because I say so.”

Leo made a sound. It was not a dignified sound, someplace between a gasp and a moan and pure wholehearted relief. “Yes—”

“When you come it’s because you deserve it,” Sam said. “You deserve to feel good, Leo. You want me to fuck you now?”

“Oh god,” Leo whispered back. His head spun for a moment; he shut his eyes, lying back amid pillows. He was, he recognized abruptly, crying: the corners of his eyes felt damp. And his cock was rock-hard, and his body felt shocked and shimmery and limp with quakes of pleasure and tight with ecstasy, a paradox that left him wordless and floating, carried on so many ceaseless waves. “Yes, please.”

“You okay?”

“Yes.” His voice came out a bit small, not broken but tiny and hopeful. “Please fuck me.”

“I will. My sweet Leo. I’ll always take care of you.” Sam shifted position again, groaned quietly, audibly bit his lip. “Can’t do much about it on this end, but I wish I could. Had to get a hand on myself, just touching for a sec, imagining you.”

Leo pictured that too: Sam sitting there with his glorious cock making a massive bulge under jeans or trousers, a bulge now loosely cupped on one hand, fingers long and tanned, the sight absolutely filthy and lewd and wicked there in a guest room with a closed door…

He whimpered. Sam laughed. “Okay, baby, I’ve got you, I promised, and I’ll give you what you need, right now, okay? Get your lube. Get a couple fingers nice and wet, and just give that hungry little hole a rub for me, not too much, but not too gentle, either. I know how you like feeling it.”

Leo nearly spilled lube all across himself. His hands were shaking. And when he slipped fingers back between his spread legs, finding the furl of muscle, he almost came on the spot; even his rim quivered, too sensitive the way all of him felt too sensitive, alight and awake and alive.

He rubbed at himself, as instructed. His hole fluttered, loosening and clutching at his fingers, growing wet with lube; he moaned.

“Other hand,” Sam said. “On your cock. Go ahead and stroke it for me. Tell me what you’re doing.”

“I…I’m…” Clumsy and sparkling, uncoordinated and enraptured, he wrapped a hand around himself. Rocked hips, thrusting up into his grip, loving the slide of his shaft through his fingers. No, Sam’s fingers. Because he belonged to Sam, body and heart and soul. His entire body tensed sweetly at that, a rhythmic pulsing that swelled and ebbed. “I’m…stroking my cock…rubbing my—my hole for you…’s your hole, it’s, I’m…yours, Sam, please…feels so good…”

“Mine.” Sam sounded both pleased and breathless; at least, his voice was ragged. “Yeah. All of you. Everything you want to give me, your hole and your cock and the way you say my name…god, I love the way you just dive right in, you don’t hold back, you just give and give and offer up all of yourself, and you’re so fucking incredible, Leo. You just let me—you want me to see you.”

“Very much,” Leo murmured hazily, “right now…”

Sam laughed again, though the sound had an odd catch in the middle. Leo couldn’t think enough to figure out what that’d been. “Quick, we said. And you like it a little rough, you like finding out what you can feel, so…harder. Faster. I’m making you come, you got that, baby? No stopping, no slowing down, just my hand on that sweet little cock, rubbing you all over, and there’s nothing you can do about it, you’re gonna come for me, with my hand wrapped around your cock and my fingers teasing that pretty pink hole…”

Leo outright sobbed, writhing dazedly atop his bed. His hand, Sam’s hand, worked his cock: harder, as Sam had said, and faster, up and down as his hips rose and fell; so much, so much it almost hurt, his whole length over-sensitive and feeling raw and laid-bare now, and yet he couldn’t stop caressing himself, over and over…and his fingers were stroking his hole as well, teasing and tantalizing, and he was moaning and crying and whimpering and dissolving into incoherent white heat all over…

“Keep going,” Sam told him. “More. I want to hear you scream for me, Leo. I want to hear you come.”

“Oh god—” He couldn’t stop moving, and he couldn’t stop the coiling billowing rush, the wave of diamonds that swept up and crashed outward, sharp and wild and deliriously bright, and he was coming, crying Sam’s name, crying out, sobbing and shaking and spurting all over himself, shuddering in mindless emptied-out bliss.

He lay limp after, trembling, twitching occasionally; his cock throbbed, a wondrous soreness where his hand lay slack around the shaft. He couldn’t move, and didn’t want to.

“Leo,” Sam was saying, somewhat urgently. “Leo? Talk to me. Please.”

“Mmm….”

“Oh thank god. Starting to think I’d—never mind. Are you okay? Can you wake up for me?”

“No,” Leo said, collapsed across his bed with every atom thrumming in utter satisfaction. The end of his tea cheered him on; it did not mind getting cold in the name of this very good cause. The orange of his pajama trousers glowed giddily in a heap of discarded color. “This is me asleep. You thought you’d what? Accidentally killed me with phone sex?”

Sam snorted, relief under humor. “No. But…I wish I was there. You got all quiet on me.”

“That does tend to happen when one’s overwhelmed by orgasms.”

“Overwhelming, huh?”

“Marvelous.” Leo beamed up at his ceiling. It applauded his display. “Spectacular. Resplendent. You’re so very good at fucking me with my own hand. Your hand. Did you know I’m getting on a plane tomorrow night?”

“I did,” Sam agreed gravely. “Did you know that means you’ll be here? With me?”

“Astonishing. Imagine that.”

“We can overwhelm you some more in person. How’re you feeling? Warm enough?”

Leo lifted a sticky hand, wobbled it, pretended Sam could see him. The flush of climax had receded; his drying skin was a bit chilly. “Eh…”

“Leo,” Sam said patiently, “we’re taking care of you. Aftercare’s important. You being comfortable is important. Do you feel like you need to shower, or just clean up and get warm?”

“Ah…the latter. It’s late and I’m tired. Will you—should you get back to helping with books?”

“I’m not leaving you.” Sam’s voice settled firm and incontrovertible into Leo’s ears and chest and stomach. “I’ll stay right here, okay?”

“Okay,” Leo echoed, more quietly than he’d meant to. Felt good somehow. Like contentment.

He cleaned himself up and got dressed and sipped tea. He put on fuzzy socks in shaggy aquatic blue because Sam told him to stay warm. He finished the tea with Sam’s voice beside him, and he went and brushed teeth and got ready for bed with Sam beside him, with Sam gently asking questions about his comfort and offering guidance and suggestions. Leo, basking in the suggestions and the nudges and the care, began to feel a bit odd: not arousal, or at least not a bright quick leaping sort of arousal. More a pink and fluffy diffuse cloud, expanding and floating around in his head. Drowsy, like morning roses, and calming as steam from a cup of tea.

He nestled into his bed and told Sam that he felt very warm and very flowery, and Sam laughed and asked what sort of flowers. Leo said, “Roses, of course, the big floppy cheerful kind, I’ve always liked them,” and yawned. “I’m so very well taken care of.”

“You sound like it. Rest, okay? Text me when you wake up.”

“I promise. Will you be doing something for yourself later? At your hotel? Will you let me know?”

“I might,” Sam said. “I’ll tell you if I do. Thinking of you.”

“Mmm. Kinky. I’m your fantasy. Let me know what fantasy me does so I can try to recreate it in person.”

“You in person _is_ my fantasy,” Sam said. “Nothing too kinky, just you. The way you feel. The way you look when you come, when I get you to come for me. Maybe a _little_ kinky. Might try spanking you. You like sensation.”

“Now you definitely have to tell me everything you’re imagining!”

“Go to sleep, Leo.”

“I _am_.”

“Are you?”

“I am now.”

“You’re still talking.”

“There is that small detail.”

“Go on,” Sam said, tender and assertive, “you need to rest, okay? I’ll be here when you get here. I’ll be here.”

“I know,” Leo said, “go have fun with Colby and Jason and the strawberry tarts, I’m going to sleep, I know you’re here, good night,” and hung up on Sam’s amused sound, and wiggled toasty toes under blankets and sock-fuzz.

He sent a heart. Because he could; because he meant it.

Sam sent a heart back, plus, _Go to sleep, Leo!_

Leo sent over the blowing-a-kiss emoji, and set down the phone, and wriggled down into his pillows and blankets. The pillows were cool and plump and familiar, being his; he felt himself smiling, cheek pressed into the topmost. The blankets tucked anchoring weight around and atop him.

He thought of Sam, and of lovely lingering lassitude in his bones; he thought of his family, of his parents loving him and wanting to meet Sam, and of leftover crumble for a post-run morning snack. He thought of Sam getting on with Colby and Jason, and how good that was, how warm it felt. He thought of getting on a plane tomorrow, and the future unfolding.

He thought of being himself, openly and proudly and excitedly, the way he’d been with his parents. He thought of doing that at Sam’s side, in love, because he was and he knew he was.

Today had, he thought, been a good day. His pillows and toes, snug and cozy, agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still a tiny bit ambivalent about the phone sex scene in this one. It wanted to be written, so I did, but did we need it? Is it too much sex? Especially if the next chapter totally has the in-person sex and enjoyment of that bed? But I didn't really want to cut it, either, because Leo needed a reward. :p So it stayed in!
> 
> Also, I love Colby and Jason being protective of Leo's heart. :-)


	8. in bed, very happily

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Leo and Sam enthusiastically reunite, and a hotel bed approves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is actually the first half, or a little more than half, of what was turning into an Epic Chapter (and still not quite done!). So I gave up and decided this was a good chapter break, for now...

Leo gazed at the hotel bed, and fell in love. Not with Sam, because he’d already done that. With mountains of fluffy pristine white bedding, and pillows with patterns of marine life, including a seahorse picked out in aquamarine sequins. “It’s marvelous. I want to take every single pillow home with me.”

“I thought you might.” Sam, who’d met him in the lobby and held his hand all the way up in the elevator, let go to rummage around in a bag on the table by the window. “Got you a present.”

“You mean other than yourself?”

The flight had been long and uneventful. Leo’d read a possible script involving Victorian-era scandal and murder and bigamy, had decided that the two male leads were obviously more into each other than the woman they were supposedly in love with, had watched _Adrenaline Spike_ again just to have some more ammunition regarding Jason and the terrible action-hero clichés, and had utterly failed to fall asleep even though he’d tried. He’d ended up putting on a travel documentary about Macchu Picchu and then wondering what llamas felt like to pet.

He’d never been good at sleeping on planes. Tended to want to know what was happening around him. Listening. Getting distracted.

In this case the distraction involved anticipation. He’d barely been able to sit still in the car on the way to the hotel.

He knew Sam had gone out to the beach that morning, because Colby and Jason were in meetings with Jillian and studio executives most of the day; he knew, because of sent pictures, that Sam had rolled up trouser-legs and sat barefoot in the sand, feeling sun and tasting salt and sea, occasionally capturing a snapshot of the ocean’s rolling blue glory and some distant surfers riding waves and shared fun.

He knew Sam loved people, in all their messy beautiful complexity. Sam took and saved and made eternal every laugh, every human story, with that camera.

Sam had come back here and brushed off sand and waited for him, because Leo hadn’t publicly come out yet and Sam did understand people and wouldn’t assume that Leo wanted to be swept off his feet and soundly kissed at the airport or even in a hotel lobby.

Leo had wanted that. So badly it hurt: the want stuck a spear in his chest, skewering him in place.

There’d been paparazzi at the airport, of course. Not too many, but a few. They’d snapped pictures of him walking, carrying his bag, signing an autograph or two. He’d waved and been friendly, but the media would say he looked tired, he guessed; lack of sleep would do that.

He turned from the bed. Sam was holding something out. Small. Wrapped in tissue paper. A gift.

Leo took it. His heart looked at the spear in his chest and pushed back against it a fraction: Sam hadn’t tipped him into a movie-cliché kiss downstairs, but had bought him a present.

He unfolded layers of paper. He discovered glass, seashells, glitter: Southern California tourism in snowglobe form. “This is brilliant!”

“It’s not anything big.” Sam had tucked hands into pockets, watching him, smiling faintly. “I just thought…we talked about seahorses…and it’s sort of tacky but also sort of not, y’know? Like, it totally is, and you could afford way better souvenirs, but it also goes with your fish pillow.”

“I love it.” He honestly did. Drifting sparkly sand flowed around a seahorse and a sand castle, when he tilted the globe; the base wore glued-on shells with unselfconscious glee. “There’s a whole story to it, isn’t there? He’s built that lovely castle, and he’s so pleased to show it off. Have you ever built a sand castle? I expect I’d be pleased too, if I could make one like that.”

Sam’s smile got bigger.

“What,” Leo said, “are sand castles some sort of bizarre American euphemism for sex, because I can kind of see that, with the towers—”

“No. Or at least not that I know about.” Sam stepped in close, looped an arm around Leo’s waist, tugged him into an embrace. “You’re perfect.”

“I tell people that all the time. I’m so glad someone finally believes me.”

“I _do_ believe you.” Sam’s hand wandered down to Leo’s backside, fondling, squeezing. “Want me to kiss you?”

“Yes, if you wouldn’t mind doing that now—”

Sam’s mouth landed on his. Sam kissed with conviction and with tongue, fierce and delighted and seemingly intent on showing Leo just how much fun kissing could be. Leo heard someone make a desperate needy sound; it was himself, as Sam nibbled at his lower lip, nuzzled his throat, left scratches of stubble.

He very nearly dropped his snowglobe. His knees wobbled. Sam felt hot and masculine and wonderful, powerful and kind, generous and relentless in the giving of pleasure.

Perfect. Oh yes.

They tumbled in the direction of the bed, under sunshine. Sam’s hands tugged at the buttons of Leo’s shirt, and his belt, and his jeans; Leo arched his back and rubbed himself against Sam, shamelessly loving the feel of him, the way their bodies fit together, the hard hot press of desire. His skin was warm, tingling wherever Sam touched him: like the glitter, he thought, in a snowglobe.

He had to laugh. Sam paused.

“Nothing,” Leo said, “I’m just happy, do that again, touch me more,” and carefully set _his_ snowglobe down on the closest nightstand, while Sam’s hand got back to teasing his nipple.

Sam pushed him down onto the bed, sent a few pillows flying with a sweep of one arm, yanked Leo’s jeans all the way off, bent to kiss him: a quick press of affection over Leo’s stomach, above his underwear, which happened to be red today, mostly because Leo had a hazy idea that red was a seductive sort of color and had certainly planned on seducing Sam.

Who announced, lips brushing Leo’s skin, just under his navel, “Missed tasting you.”

“Only just there? I have got other parts you can taste.”

Sam grinned. Swept Leo’s underwear away with alacrity. Leo’s cock, freed from confines, bounced up. “I like seeing you like this.”

Leo, spread out naked before him, wriggled in place. Tried for a pin-up pose. “I like being on display for you.” He did. He wanted Sam to want him; he wanted Sam atop him, covering him, in him, so that Leo could hold onto him and feel him everywhere.

“Beautiful.” Sam hopped off the bed, lost his own clothing, came back. He was golden too, like the sunshine: tanned skin, honeyed eyes, visible pleasure. His cock was full and fat and flushed, deeply colored and thick; Leo gazed at it. He’d had that inside him; he ached for it again, yearning, empty.

He spread his legs more, hopefully. Sam’s eyebrows went up, amused and excited. “In a hurry?”

“I missed you as well. Including _all_ your parts. Bring that particular part over here, please.”

“Oh, so you’re giving the orders here, got it.” But Sam bent to kiss him, and was pleased, Leo could tell; the kiss was deep and possessive, and Sam’s naked body was firm against his. Leo’s cock stirred, leaking, eager.

Sam knelt above him as he lay on the bed, surrounded by a few more aquatic pillows; Sam took his own cock in hand and gave it a leisurely stroke, hand pumping rigid flesh. Leo whimpered, lifting his head as best he could, begging.

Sam guided himself to Leo’s mouth. Let Leo lick at him, suck at him, learn the feel of him all over again: the large head, the thick girth, the taste of Sam’s desire. Sam’s cock filled up his mouth, and his senses: Leo had not ever previously known how much he loved this feeling, having a man’s cock— _Sam’s_ cock—keeping him occupied and busy and satisfied. He tried to show his happiness, his devotion, by worshiping the length of it, awkward as his position currently was. He wanted Sam to know it. He wanted Sam to fuck him, to claim him, to take him hard and fast, pounding into his throat or his arse, making him feel it all, incontrovertible.

Sam drew back. Touched Leo’s cheek. Surprised, Leo opened his eyes; he hadn’t meant to close them. Sam traced his eyebrow, cock resting sticky against Leo’s lower lip. “Everything okay?”

“I want you,” Leo said. The weight of Sam’s cock over his mouth caused a low wicked matching pulse to build someplace deep inside; his lips were wet, his own cock was rubbing slick against his stomach, and he felt filthy and decadent and wonderful. “Please fuck me. Please. Hard.”

Sam gave him a small head-tilt. “Hard, huh? It’s been a while, though, and you haven’t—”

“—precisely had a ton of experience, yet? I’ve had _you_. I’m not fragile. I need it.”

Sam’s expression shifted, softened. “You do, don’t you? My Leo. You haven’t had much sleep, I was going to say.” He touched the spot under Leo’s right eye, exquisitely gentle. “You didn’t sleep on the plane, did you?”

“I never can. Are you planning to fuss over me or fuck me? I vote for the second. Sometime soon.”

“Jesus, you _are_ a bossy bottom,” Sam said, and pushed his cock into Leo’s mouth; Leo began sucking at him again, happily. “And who says I can’t do both? You could use someone fussing over you. _And_ fucking you, yes, stop giving me that look.”

Leo paused long enough to say, “You like me looking at you,” and batted his eyelashes, and licked the tip of Sam’s cock, right over the slit, lapping up traces of want. Sam’s cock was all nice and shiny, after; he regarded it with pride.

Sam made a noise, something between a groan and a growl and a laugh, and more fluid bubbled up; Sam liked him doing that, Leo concluded. So he did it some more, lots of purposefully sweet little licks and laps.

Sam groaned again, and pulled back. Leo let out a sad sound.

“Thought you wanted me to fuck you,” Sam said, “not come on your face, which, for the record, was pretty much about to happen.” He looked like laughter, all bright and thrilled. A stripe of sunlight lay on the bed beside him, gold over white.

“Please do.” Leo flung out arms dramatically. Hit a lingering curious pillow. Which flopped down onto his wrist, dolphin embroidery and all.

For some reason this was utterly hilarious; he couldn’t not laugh. Himself and this bed and cheerful marine life and Sam, his wonderful Sam: the world felt perfect, he felt perfect, like his silly teasing word had come true, like a spell spoken into life.

Sam shook his head, grinned, and reached over to move the pillow because Leo hadn’t bothered. “Thought you’d like this bed. Didn’t realize you wanted the decorative dolphins to join in.”

“They can watch if they’d like. I have zero shame, everyone knows that. Particularly not when I’m enjoying myself. Which I am, if you hadn’t noticed.”

Sam looked at the dolphins. They eyed him right back. Leo wondered briefly whether dolphins also rejected the concept of shame. He thought that he might like dolphins, if so.

Sam, with somewhat suspicious haste, tossed the pillow at a chair. And then several more pillows for good measure. “I want you all to myself, thanks.”

“I suppose I can live without a dolphin audience.” Leo reached out, an impulse; Sam, now beside him, caught his hand and said, “Yes, we can go to an aquarium sometime, and no, I’m not going to have sex with you in public in an aquarium, but maybe in the men’s room,” and kissed his fingers.

“How’d you guess what I was thinking?” Leo squirmed against the bed, craving, needing, wanting more. “Oh, wait, you’re good at that.”

Sam stroked a hand over his stomach, maddeningly near but not touching Leo’s cock. “I’m learning. How Leo’s brain works. It’s a whole research course.”

“Really? Are there detailed projects? Areas of…ah…advanced study? Academic rigor?”

“Lots of gathering data.” Sam trailed a finger through the spreading wetness on Leo’s stomach. Leo nearly screamed. His skin shivered like music, like a note being played, the vibration of a tuning fork.

Sam said, “Testing a hypothesis,” and wrapped his hand around Leo’s straining cock, commanding and tight, and the grip resonated everyplace, through Leo’s bones and hammering heartbeat and thoughts.

He made a sound—a broken inarticulate sound, and he couldn’t’ve said whether it was relief or love or begging for more or pure joy—and felt his body respond, hips lifting, balls tense; a small spurt spilled from him, over the head, down to Sam’s hand on him. He moaned raggedly.

“You do like sensation,” Sam mused, with satisfaction. “Like this…” He did begin to play with Leo’s cock, then: rough enough that Leo began whimpering, crying out, loving it, rocking helplessly up into the relentless handling. Sam scratched a thumbnail over his dripping slit; Leo screamed aloud as white-hot sensation streaked through him, and felt his head thump against the bed, back arching.

“Definitely an interesting data point.” Sam’s eyes were dancing, Leo registered blurrily. “Might need to test that one again.”

He did. And then again, and again. Stroking, squeezing, scratching, even teasing the slit with a push and scrape of nails. Leo started sobbing with delight, with the onslaught of bewildering ecstasy and anguish happening to his cock, feeling himself growing wetter and wetter, leaking all over Sam’s hand; his head rolled weakly from side to side, and his muscles clenched and shuddered in a trembling instinctive rhythm.

Sam stopped playing with his cock. Ran both hands along Leo’s inner thighs, stroking, soothing. Leo, so lost in sensation that even that tenderness felt magnified to impossible heights, whined and let his legs fall wider, hips jerking, pushing his cock up into empty air.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Sam said, very quietly, hands still caressing Leo’s legs. His eyes were serious, iron under honeyed brown. “I know you like feeling things, I know you like it a little intense, so you _can_ feel it, and I lo—I like giving you that, Leo, I do. But I don’t want to actually hurt you. And you’re crying.”

“I’m not…well, possibly…a bit…”

“You are. Tell me how you’re doing? Please.”

Leo took a steadying breath. Met Sam’s concerned gaze. “My dick feels as if you’ve been using your hands to take me apart, but in a very good way, and I would like more?”

“There’s my Leo,” Sam said, and bent and kissed the tip of Leo’s poor reddened cock, while Leo’s brain went momentarily blank and shimmery at the phrasing—himself belonging to Sam, Sam claiming him, Sam choosing him—and then Sam’s tongue began licking him, apologetic and sweet and loving now, stroking him all over right where he’d been left sore and sizzling. The contrast turned Leo’s head into sparklers and twinkling lights, fizzing and short-circuiting and electric.

Sam licked him and caressed him and suckled gently at him for an uncounted while, as Leo lost track of time and space, as the feeling became all he knew. He felt his body shudder with euphoria, slow rippling pulses of happiness; he could not think much beyond that. He had Sam, and Sam was taking care of him; Sam would make him feel everything, all the sharp quick glory and deep thrumming bliss. That was all Leo needed; he gave himself over to Sam’s care gladly.

Sam’s fingers touched him. They fondled his balls, kindly at first, then tugging slightly. Leo moaned in response, partly because he couldn’t help the sound. Sam tapped him lightly, the flat of one hand; it stung a bit, deliciously. Leo trembled with pleasure.

Sam’s mouth lifted from his cock; weight shifted. Fingers touched Leo’s hole, easing his cheeks apart; the fingers were slick, not cold but warm, even hot. They caressed him, pressed into him, opened him up: making him ready for Sam.

That really _did_ feel warm; Leo lifted his head, hazily looking that way. Sam saw him peeking and smiled. “Hey. How’re you feeling?”

“Marvelous. Easy for you. Warm inside.” He couldn’t really see what Sam was doing, from this angle; that was all right. He didn’t need to. He felt splendid, being worked open and soothed and prepared. “Why’s it warm?”

“Heating lube.” Sam wiggled the fingers in him; Leo made a noise he’d not known he could make, an outright blissful purr, and pushed back in reply. Sam went on, “Figured you’d enjoy that. You feel so good, you know. All pink and soft and opened up for me…wanting me inside you…”

“So very much. Now?”

“Now,” Sam agreed, and moved atop him, and into him: condom-sheathed length pushing hard and smoothly into Leo’s body.

Leo forgot to breathe for a moment, on his back and looking up. Sam filled up his vision, his hole, all his sensations. Inside him, above him, that splash of sun along one shoulder, muscles rippling. Everything he’d been missing, everything that plunged inside all the empty places and made them feel right again. He felt so very right, like this: as if he’d always needed to be right here, being fucked so well by Sam, who was gazing down at him with an expression somewhere between reverence and a desperate grip on self-control.

“I’m feeling spectacular,” Leo informed him, because Sam needed to know; and then he wrapped both legs around Sam’s waist for good measure.

Sam’s “ _Leo_ —” came out broken and shuddering; his hips moved more, sped up, thrust. His length moved inside Leo’s body, huge and blunt and wonderful; the next thrust hit the spot that set off all the fireworks, over and over, and Leo gasped and clenched around him and made all sorts of noises, cries and pleas and whimpers, inarticulate and euphoric. His cock twitched and pulsed more wet all over his stomach; so much, he thought dreamily, and it felt so good, he felt so good, with Sam pounding into him…

Sam grabbed his legs. Lifted them, rearranging Leo’s limbs. He was nearly bent in half now, under Sam’s weight, with that lovely length and girth pumping into him. He wondered fuzzily what he must look like, from Sam’s perspective: utterly wanton, decadent, simply begging to be taken. He moaned at the thought.

Sam groaned and thrust harder, deeper, losing finesse and control. “Leo—I’m—god, the way you look, you’re so—”

“Yours,” Leo panted, “yours—”

Sam slipped one hand down to Leo’s cock, not even stroking, merely holding him, gripping him, Leo’s sensitive raw shaft at the mercy of Sam’s large strong hand—

And that was it, oh god that was it: he felt his mouth fall open, felt his body shudder and arch, felt the tingling wild racing wave as it rose up and spilled over and turned all his thoughts to gold and white light. He was coming and coming, all over Sam’s hand and his own stomach and chest; his hole clenched around the wonderful hard thick length buried inside him, over and over, rhythmic and instinctive.

Sam’s whole body grew taut, and his hips rocked forward, and he was coming as well, eyes wide and stunned and full of gold. Leo gazed up at him, loved him, felt loved by him; Sam’s hand squeezed his cock, maybe inadvertently, but the abrupt grip sent another pulse of dizzying ecstasy all through Leo’s body, and he cried out softly, twitching and shaking with pleasure that teetered on the brink of too much, overwhelming, but he needed it, he craved it, and his cock spurted again, weakly.

Sam’s breath caught, even as the climax ebbed from his muscles; he gazed down at Leo, stroked Leo’s dripping cock, reverent and wondering. One finger caressed Leo’s tip, toyed with the slit, rubbed at tender sizzling flesh.

Leo wailed, high and wordless. Sparks crashed through his brain, his body. His hole, opened up and full of Sam’s still-hard weight inside him. His poor overworked cock, which hurt and throbbed and felt incredible, and he thought it must look so red and flushed and messy and wrung out, limp in Sam’s hand. The thought made him sob and spasm helplessly, trembling with anguished bliss. He wanted Sam to play with him some more, to make him feel like this forever: that could be everything he knew, his whole world reduced to fizzing crackling static and the wet slick sounds of his cock in Sam’s fingers, as Sam took him and claimed him and kept him.

Sam’s hand slipped away. Leo mumbled sounds, incoherent. His mouth felt wet too, having fallen open.

Sam moved atop him—Leo’s legs flopped down, no longer held up, cradling Sam’s hips—and settled atop him, holding him. The weight felt good; Leo’s cock was now trapped between their bodies, and that felt good too. He tried to say so, but his voice had turned into hazy tipsy giggles, drunk on sensation. His vision had gone a bit hazy too, so that Sam seemed ringed by light, framed by halos.

Sam murmured something. Leo’s name. And touched his face, cupped his cheek. “Leo. God. So good—so perfect—oh, Leo…”

Leo nuzzled into the caress, liking it.

Sam laughed a little, unguarded and affectionate; and kissed him, clumsy with afterglow, noses bumping. “Just a sec, okay?” He pulled back, shifted—pulling out, Leo understood vaguely, and disposing of the condom—and then came back with a large friendly towel and began cleaning Leo’s exhausted quivering body, with exquisite attention to every inch, and occasional scattered kisses.

The towel was fluffy and Sam’s hands were careful, but even the lightest brush to Leo’s cock made him whimper. Sam breathed, “Sorry, sorry, I know, I know that was a lot, I know you’re sore, I’m sorry, Leo,” and Leo surfaced from drowsy rainbow waves to whisper, “What on earth’re you apologizing for, I feel glorious.” He did.

Sam laughed again, brief and hopeful, sitting back. A strand of his hair fell forward, dark over honey-smoke eyes. “Yeah? You sounded like that hurt, just now.”

“Oh…maybe. A bit. But in a _good_ way. Very good. Come lie down with me?”

Sam tossed the towel away promptly, and did: pulling Leo into his arms, legs falling naturally together, kisses brushed to the corner of Leo’s eye, his nose, his mouth. “Might’ve got a little carried away, there. At the end.”

“Mmm. I enjoyed it. You were right about me.”

“Was I?” Sam ran fingers through Leo’s hair, leisurely, comforting. “About what?”

“Me appreciating sensation. Intensity. I like you doing things to me, I think.”

“I like me doing things to you too.”

Leo poked toes at Sam’s ankle, but not hard, because his toes were full of contentment. “You know what I mean.”

“I do. You like being kind of overwhelmed by it. When it’s almost too much, but that’s what you want.” Sam traced a fingertip along the line of Leo’s throat. “You want everything wonderful. All the sensations.”

“I sound terribly extravagant.”

“No.”

“Self-indulgent?”

“No. Leo, the way you look when you’re happy…the way you dive right in, like you could never be scared, like you trust me to make you feel good…” Sam swallowed. His eyes were heartbreakingly golden: open, honest, raw with emotion. “I’ve never wanted anything as much as this. Seeing you like that. Hoping I can get you to look that way again. God, it’s been, what, a couple weeks since we met?—and I’m here and you’re here and all I can think about is how much I love seeing you happy. And how damn lucky I am.”

His voice was quiet; the afternoon was quiet too, sun-laced, poignant, clear as exhilarated white bed-sheets and palm trees and the weight of his hand over Leo’s naked skin. Sincerity laced his touch, and the world.

A different person, a role or character, might’ve had more eloquent words. Leo, being cuddled by Sam and therefore foggy with pink-hued satisfaction, protested, “But you’re exactly the person who makes me happy!” and then, “Hang on, you… _love_ …seeing me happy, you said.”

And then he winced. Tact. Not one of his qualities. But. Love. Sam’d said love.

“Yeah, I…” Sam had heard it too. Hesitated. Took a breath. Went ahead. “I do, Leo. I mean…it’s way too soon, it’s all too fast, I know, I’m not gonna come out and say it and make things weird, but…”

“But you’re thinking it,” Leo said. “Er…that is…you _are_ thinking the words I’m thinking, right?”

Sam’s eyes met his. Held them. And joy spread like midsummer fireworks: bright and billowing. “You’re thinking it too?”

“As you said, it’s all a bit fast and we should be mature about it and also you’re literally the first man I’ve ever slept with and…and never mind all that,” Leo told him, “because yes. I keep thinking of you—of things I want to say to you, or to tell you, and I feel like I can say anything even if it’s ridiculous, and then I feel like I can maybe be the person you think I am, someone who’s thoughtful and brave and kind and all those other adjectives, because you look at me like that and you touch me like that, and I feel so _right_ , you feel so right, and I—well, yes. I love…er, seahorses. And gifts of snowglobes. And this bed.”

He also ran a hand over Sam’s chest on the word. Making it clear: Sam, at the moment, _was_ more or less being his bed.

“You _are_ all those things,” Sam said, loyal and quick and loving; and rolled him over into pillowy bedding and settled on top, letting Leo feel his weight and luxuriate in it. “You’re fucking perfect, Leo Whyte.”

“And perfect to fuck?” Leo asked hopefully. He was fairly worn out, but he’d be up for a round two, given some recovery time. “You did once say we were excellent in bed, together.”

“And perfect to fuck.” Sam dropped a kiss on his nose. “Though not yet, again, okay?”

“What? Why not?”

“Because, as much as I want to tie you to this bed and get _this_ —” Sam rocked their hips together, making his semi-hard cock rub against Leo’s spent and sensitive dick, making the point; Leo moaned, unabashed about it. “—inside me, you look exhausted and I think you should rest. I can take care of you.”

“But I _like_ sex with you.”

“Leo…”

“And you’ve just said—we’ve just said—we can’t profess mutual devotion and _not_ have sex!”

“I adore you,” Sam said, very earnestly, body cozily pinning Leo’s down, “and we _did_ just have incredible sex, and we’re not going to rush anything, got it? You said it, I said it, it’s perfect, and we’re good. I just want to hold you for a minute, all right?”

“Oh. I suppose…I might like that.”

“Come here.” Sam rolled to his side, gathered Leo close, tucked him into a tangle of arms and legs and sheets. “Try to get some rest, okay? For me.”

“Won’t you be bored? You haven’t just got off a plane.”

“No,” Sam said. “No, I won’t be bored.” One hand got back to stroking Leo’s hair, fingers slipping through strands. Leo’s hair loved the feeling.

He shut his eyes. He let himself bask in the sensation of Sam’s body against his, Sam’s chest and shoulder supporting him, the warmth of smooth skin against his cheek. He wasn’t sure he could sleep, whole body humming in a wrung-dry fading-firecracker way, not wanting to miss a moment.

But he was awfully tired, and the strength was so nice to lean on. Sam was a fraction shorter than he was, but somehow that didn’t seem to matter right now, as one of Sam’s legs draped over him and cuddled him closer.

He let his breathing slow, and let the world dwindle: airports and autographs and weariness gave way to the simplicity of the moment. Himself, here, being held. Sunshine and a bed. And a snowglobe on a side table.

Sam, holding on, felt the gradual settling of Leo’s body, saw Leo’s face relax, watched the man he loved settle into sleep; and breathed out, himself.

Leo looked so tired. Happy, or at least Sam thought so—Leo wore emotion so brightly, so transparently, except for the hidden exceptions—and thoroughly satisfied. But undeniably weary, with smudges under closed eyes.

Leo had met him joy for joy, and had said nothing about a lack of sleep on the flight over until asked. He wouldn’t’ve, Sam concluded. And apparently Leo never could sleep on planes, which, given the acting life, likely meant a lot of tiredness.

He wanted to know things like that. He wanted to help, if he could. Maybe he could come along. Maybe Leo could sleep better with someone he trusted right there next to him. Maybe Sam could be a pillow, or bring a pillow, or whatever would banish those dark circles. Sam did not like those circles. He wanted them gone.

They’d said so much, and also not enough. Sam rubbed a thumb along Leo’s shoulderblade, slow and comforting. Leo didn’t even make a noise, but nestled closer to him, heartbreakingly sweet.

He wondered whether Leo’d encountered any paparazzi, autograph hunters, fans, upon arrival. He’d be surprised if not; Leo Whyte probably had security, but Sam knew his own profession. He knew about persistence and obnoxious camera-flashes and celebrity stake-outs and tip-offs about flight numbers. And Leo was decently famous, especially these days, with all the drama surrounding _Steadfast_. Jason and Colby might be the stars, but Leo was up there as far as cast billing and could usually be counted on for some sort of tantalizing rumor or gossip or at least some good fun.

Leo Whyte had never been shy about posing for cameras. Waving sex-shop toys, one time. Offering to dance with a paparazzo down the street outside a ballroom-lessons studio, on another occasion. Once he’d bought all of them ice cream.

Leo liked being unpredictable, he knew. And a razor-blade skittered around his heart for just a second: Leo enjoyed surprises, whimsy, flirtations, all light and weightless…

But that wasn’t Leo, or not all of Leo. The Leo Whyte most people _didn’t_ know was the Leo who couldn’t sleep on planes, who worried about asking too much of friends, who gave his heart so honestly and readily that the gift was easy to overlook. The Leo who’d fallen asleep curled up in Sam’s arms, mouth a little open, trusting him.

I love you, he thought. I love you so fucking much, Leo Whyte. And the thought hurt his heart, but it was a crystalline luminous hurt: clear and sharp and poignant as a sword-point last stand.

He knew Leo had no good reason to feel the same. No reason that made any sense, not in any fairy tale. But Leo had said it too. Those emotions. How right they were, together.

He let his head rest against Leo’s. He let himself imagine: that fairy tale, if it could be one. A future, a home, two homes, in Vegas and in London, maybe. Enough money for that; enough money to never worry about money, not ever again. Himself at Leo’s side for red-carpet premieres. Leo meeting his family, Thea and Diana and Carlos. Himself meeting Leo’s parents, getting their approval, being told they thought he was good enough for their son. Himself holding Leo’s hand in public.

His pictures of Colby and Jason—and of Leo, maybe—gaining some attention. An exhibition. An opening in a gallery.

A world in which Sam Hernandez-Blake had some small name as a photographer, someone who could capture and distill even a fraction of the luscious vibrant life that spun all around them.

Leo had asked him once what his favorite subjects were. People, he’d answered. Stories. Everything about them.

Leo had understood. Of course.

He let himself dream it all, just for a moment, in bed with Leo on a sunny California afternoon.

Time drifted, unhurried. Sam breathed in, tasted a golden flutter of Leo’s hair, breathed out. Shut his own eyes for a while.

Leo’s phone made a sound, from his jeans pocket, because Sam had peeled those jeans off Leo’s legs without paying much attention to anything else. On the floor, it tossed a reminder upward: life existed, and obligations demanded a return to reality.

Right now, this second, he didn’t want to move. Anyway, he couldn’t disturb Leo.

He held onto Leo, and his heart, while the afternoon stretched out and deepened into lazy topaz.

Leo stirred, eventually. With some astonishment, announced into Sam’s bare chest, “I fell asleep.”

“You can stay asleep if you want.”

“No, I’m awake.” Leo yawned. “I didn’t think I would.”

“I know.” He traced a small lopsided spiral over Leo’s back, memorizing lean muscle, honed by fencing and choreography and gym sessions and whatever else movie stars did to stay in shape. “Happy I could help.”

“You do.” Leo yawned again, comfortable and contented in Sam’s arms. “I’ve been mostly awake for a few minutes, I think. More or less.”

“Have you?”

“Well…more less than more. But still. I’ve been thinking about it.”

“I know I said I was learning to speak Leo,” Sam said, “but I think that one’s an advanced degree. Thinking about what?”

“Coming out?”

Sam’s head went fuzzy with static.

“Er.” Leo peeked up at him. “We did say we’d talk about it? And I realize it’s perhaps not the best timing, but I was having thoughts, and yes I know me and thoughts don’t always go in the same sentence, but it’s what was floating about in my head, just now.”

The static got louder. Somehow, in all the golden-hued future daydreams, Sam’s brain had skipped over the part in which Leo’s entire life changed.

He’d known it would. They’d mentioned as much. He just hadn’t remembered to dwell on it.

“I imagine everyone’ll be expecting some grand declaration,” Leo contemplated, naked and draped atop him. “Possibly with balloons. Or glitter. And cake. Not that I’m opposed to cake. I think there _should_ be cake. Some sort of raspberry sponge. I _deserve_ cake. But I think…I do think I’ll need an announcement, something public, but I think I’d really rather something quieter, first. Something that’s ours, that we choose to share. What do you think?”

“I think…you deserve cake,” Sam managed, around clamoring white noise. “And what the hell was that, about you and not being thoughtful—”

“Don’t get sidetracked.” Leo actually poked him in the ribs. “I asked you a question.”

Sam opened his mouth and shut it again. Some small part of his head was also fizzing with some confusedly turned-on neurons, which had woken up at Leo being bossy and poking him.

“Um. I think. I think it’s your decision. It should be what you want.” He caught Leo’s gaze, held it. He meant every word. “Whatever you’re ready for. You’re the only one who gets to decide that.”

“Thank you, but you and I both know that isn’t true, or not exactly.” Leo swept a hand through the air, an exaggerated aristocrat’s gesture, then set it back on Sam’s chest. “I don’t want to hide, particularly not when I’m happy, and I am. I _like_ who I am. And I’ve already told my parents. So that’s that. And _that_ means it’ll be a story. And the media will pick it up and run in some sort of direction with it. Inevitable.”

Sam flinched, and hoped Leo hadn’t noticed.

Leo had. “I don’t mean you. I want to do this _with_ you.” He tapped fingers over Sam’s chest, a rhythm, though not anything recognizable. “That is—if you want to. It’ll change your life as well.”

“I know,” Sam said. “I’m not going anywhere, I said. I’m here.”

And he was. Here, on a drowsy afternoon, in a hotel bed and in a fairy tale, he knew it was true. And it was just that simple. Ogres and wicked paparazzi-magicians aside.

He said it again: “I’m here, Leo. With you.”

Leo’s eyes brightened. Leaves danced in English greenwoods. “Oh, good. I mean, I hoped so, of course, you do feel awfully solid. Tangible. Present. Thoroughly…massive.”

Sam burst out laughing, in part because Leo’s hand had snuck down to wrap around his dick and give it a meaningful tug.

Leo grinned at him. “What did you think, though? If we did something smaller, to start…and then I’ll say something during the press extravaganza, tomorrow or the next day…”

“You mean _now_?”

“Well, yes. Why wait?”

“Why—um. Okay. Yeah. Why not?” Life with Leo would never, ever be dull. It would be vivid, impulsive, full of kaleidoscopes and rocket ships and jumping off cliffs into rainbows. And Sam had already said yes; he’d say yes a hundred times over. A thousand.

He said, “What were you thinking?”

“Oh, something simple, for now…” Leo hesitated; Sam realized suddenly that the pause was something like asking for approval, or at least hoping for understanding. Leo embraced spectacle without a second thought, when the spectacle was lighthearted and insubstantial. But this—

This was Leo’s heart.

Because he couldn’t think of good words, he caught Leo’s face in both hands and dove in for a kiss. Leo kissed back, tongue teasing Sam’s, lips parting with enthusiasm. Sam wanted to kiss him forever.

Hands still framing Leo’s face, he suggested, “You want a picture of us? To share?”

Leo’s eyes got all wide and bright and soft, pleased and astonished and full of yes. “Yes—I wasn’t necessarily going to ask, but if you would—nothing explicit, of course not, but tantalizing, perhaps? You’d know better than I would, about how to do that. And I could post it, and let people start to get used to the idea…of course everyone’ll ask tomorrow, and that’ll be the big revelation, but…”

“You want to let people know you. First.”

“ _My_ people,” Leo said. “My fans, the people who’ve always supported me…they’ve always been there, you see. They come to conventions, they ask questions, they show up, over and over. If I ask them to donate to a children’s hospital or a kitten adoption agency…if I ask whether someone knows how to make a top hat or a plush unicorn…I owe them so much. I think they should get to know me. I’ve always thought that.”

“I know.” He did. And if he hadn’t already adored Leo Whyte before, he would now. Head over heels. Non-stop falling. “You’ve always shared yourself.”

“I want to now.”

“Will it cause any problems with—”

“My agent will have an entire litter of puppies, but in a good way. She’ll be thrilled at the publicity.” Leo cocked an eyebrow, added, “It’s trendy to be gay in Hollywood, haven’t you heard?”

Sam snorted.

“Well, maybe not,” Leo agreed. “And it’s probably bisexual, in any case. Or I think so. But I’m serious about the rest. It might’ve mattered more a few years ago, but less so now, I hope. And it’ll be perfect for the press for this film, not that that’s why, but it’ll be so much fun as far as timing. So yes. Right now. Let’s.”

“Right now.” And Leo trusted him, believed in him, wanted him, wanted this. Jumping off that cliff, taking that leap: but they’d jump together.

Sam glanced around. Considered options. “Decent camera? And what do you want? Holding hands, your snowglobe, us in bed?”

“Us,” Leo said. “Something incontrovertible, and happy.”

Sam grabbed a camera: well-worn, but professional-looking, and more complex than Leo’s own experience with random mobile phone snapshots. Leo sat up in bed, hugging a knee, and watched. The sheets tumbled in riotous waves over his toes, a froth of fabric to match seahorse pillows and excitement.

He liked Sam’s hands, competent and assured. He liked Sam’s body: sun-kissed and sturdy, a trail of dark hair below his navel, flat abs, firm thighs, and the lovely heavy swing of his cock, which made Leo squirm a bit against the sheets. His body wanted to feel all nice and full again.

Sam evidently had no qualms about being naked. Leo didn’t either, not really; he had, as he’d often proclaimed, no shame. Or at least very little. So he sat and happily watched Sam be naked. “What’re you doing?”

“Getting you in focus?”

“Me? Not us?”

“I’m coming back. Lie down for me? That curtain…actually, never mind, I like it. You said you wanted soft, right? Personal.”

Leo hadn’t, exactly, but he did. “What about the curtain?” He glanced over. Loose and airy, it waved in diffuse white billows, catching sunshine.

“Oh,” Sam said, almost to himself; and very obviously took a picture of Leo not at all posing, head tipped toward the window, off-guard and not expecting it.

“I want you in it,” Leo protested.

“That one’s for me.” Sam sat back down with him, making the bed dip. “So, how do you want—”

Leo leaned over and put both arms around him, and landed a kiss someplace around his temple: not terribly coordinated, but precisely what he felt like doing, just then.

“Ah,” Sam said. “Okay. Wait, do that again—” and this time he caught the moment, Leo kissing him, his own laughter.

Leo tackled him back into the bed. Kissed him again, and again: hands roaming all across Sam’s body, gazing down at him, needing to touch and be touched and let all the love spill out in a wild wondrous overflow.

He knew Sam was capturing pieces, bursts, glimpses of joy. He knew the camera remained in play. He loved that as well, here and now: Sam’s gift and their choice, just for them.

After a few minutes and a lot of laughter—and Leo’s cock deciding to wake back up, half-hard again, taking an interest in Sam’s body next to his and the pure naughty delight of naked photography, coupled with equally pure trust—Sam let him see the results. Leo, shamelessly sitting in Sam’s lap, ended up speechless.

He knew Sam was a genius. He’d known. He hadn’t, though. Not the way he saw it now.

Sam hadn’t caught anything below the waist, or even their upper bodies; they might’ve been simply shirtless, if not innocent at least more so. The daydream of the background suggested a bed, but that wasn’t the focus. The focus, and the story, was simply them.

Bare shoulders and sunshine and a gauzy white and blue backdrop. Leo’s arms flung around Sam, a moment just after a kiss. Lightness and love and Sam’s hair in Leo’s face, messy and imperfect and full of delight. Leo himself glancing at the camera, grin visible despite the press of his nose into Sam’s head, and Sam glancing down, not quite as in focus, but obviously laughing, obviously overjoyed.

The only word for it all was love. Vibrant, tumultuous, soul-baring love.

He said, “That one. That second one—”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “I thought so, too.”

“You’re in it as well. Mostly. You’re not quite looking, we can’t see your eyes, but…”

“The second you say something, someone’ll figure out who I am anyway.” Sam shrugged, or attempted to: he still had Leo in his lap, rather protectively. “Someone somewhere’ll remember that you brought a man home after your London premiere, and someone’ll recognize me in pictures of that night, and they’ll bribe your driver for details. I know me. The other mes, I mean, with the cameras and the lack of journalistic integrity or respect for privacy.”

Leo tipped his head back onto Sam’s shoulder just to make a face at him. “You did what you had to do. And you’re kinder than most. And also how dare you impugn my drivers. And also that wasn’t an answer.”

“I’m sure your drivers are fantastic,” Sam said. “And very human. No, I don’t mind. It’s gonna come out, Leo. Sooner or—”

“Well, yes, coming out is precisely the _point_ —”

“I’m trying to answer your question. No interrupting.”

Leo stuck his tongue out at Sam for that one. Sam let this go, likely because Leo hadn’t actually interrupted as such. “I’m proud to be with you. Kinda still working on believing it’s all real, but if you want me and I want you and we want this…then I want to be right there next to you.” He paused, and added, “You’re one of the bravest people I know, Leo. You know that, right?” and it sounded like a genuine question, as if that ought to be something Leo _should_ know.

Leo, who did not consider himself anywhere _near_ the realm of heroic or courageous, thank you, answered lightly, “You obviously haven’t spent nearly enough time with people, then; can I have a copy of that one? For sharing?” and did a small bounce in Sam’s lap. “I like being _very_ next to you. Where’s my phone?”

“Um…the floor? Your pants?” Sam’s eyebrows performed that little concerned motion they sometimes practiced. “Leo, I mean it. I think you’re amazing.”

“Of course I am. Send me that picture?”

Sam sighed. “I’ll need the laptop. Just a sec…” He had to get up to do that; Leo dangled over the side of the bed and fished around for his phone.

Hmm. Text messages. His agent—Anne-Marie wanted to know what he’d thought of that period-piece script, and also the proposed multi-episode arc for his character’s return to that science-fiction show. His mother—she’d randomly sent a picture of Benvolio the cat asleep on what looked like a pile of chain mail, though she’d probably meant it as an opening to a question about how he was doing today. Most recently, Jason—asking whether he’d got in all right, apologizing for being busy most of the day, which sounded more like something Colby’d put in, and asking whether he and Sam would be up for dinner later.

He looked up, still half-draped over the bed. “Are we busy later?”

“If by busy you mean having sex,” Sam said, doing something to get pictures uploaded and secure on the laptop and presumably also sent Leo’s way, “I hope so?”

“Jason and Colby are inviting us for dinner. Around eight?”

“I suppose we might need a break from the sex at _some_ point…”

“You like them,” Leo said, sitting up, “don’t you?” His phone chirped: pictures incoming.

“I do.” Sam came back and put an arm around him. “I never knew Colby Kent could come up with that many innuendos about wizard’s staffs. We were unpacking fantasy novels.”

“Colby’s marvelous,” Leo said. “And much weirder, and more complicated, than people think. In a good way, I mean, even if he does like anchovies and bananas on pizza. If you want someone brave, he’s pretty much the best example I’ve got.”

“I want you,” Sam said. “Please don’t tell me you like anchovies.”

“Tried that once. Never again. How’s this?” He’d pulled up Instagram; he’d got that picture, the one he loved, the one that was them, poised and ready.

He hadn’t been sure about a caption. In the end he’d just typed, _Happiness_ , and put a heart in, and a small rainbow flag. He meant it all.

Sam looked at it, and then looked at him. And then leaned in and kissed him: deep and thorough and hot enough to curl Leo’s toes.

“So,” Leo said, once he could talk again, somewhat breathlessly. “Shall we change the world? And give Colby and Jason something to ask us about, over hors d’oeuvres? Hopefully not banana-and-anchovy, mind you.”

“So much yes,” Sam said, so Leo did. And the photo went up, both of them together, bathed in light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think they definitely deserve cake. :-)

**Author's Note:**

> My playlist for this one so far:
> 
> Joan Jett, "Bad Reputation"  
> The Struts, "Tatler Magazine"   
> Don Henley, "Dirty Laundry"  
> The Struts, "One Night Only"  
> Depeche Mode, "Just Can't Get Enough"  
> Ritchie Valens, "Come On, Let's Go"  
> General Public, "Tenderness"  
> Blue October, "Calling You"  
> Wham!, "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go"  
> The Struts, "Bulletproof Baby"  
> Incubus, "Dig"  
> Blue October, "You Make Me Smile"  
> Dashboard Confessional, "As Lovers Go"  
> the Green Day cover of "Shout" by the Isley Brothers  
> 


End file.
